how to give back a soul

I clatter against
a photograph of a porch swing--

when you and I scraped white splinters
into our fingernails

as we shyly tested the tensile strength
of slowly creaking, corroding chains

our skin was bleeding violet shades of sunset
as we rubbed our legs nervously together,
hoping cricket song could replace speech

the porch light cast us in a spotlight
shared only by desperate, whirring moths
and flawed carpentry

I took solace in Cassiopeia
you in Perseus
because we were too terrified
of seeing what each of us were
reflected in the other’s eyes

--and realize we have always been colored in that ink.

we
(wandering the halls, silent movie shadows
who have hidden our subtitles away)
are fluent in slammed suitcases
and collect wallpaper cracks in our knuckles

plastered as we are with
stiff, posed photos and beer labels
we would burn
were someone to scrutinize us too closely

and they would not understand
that I still have splinters buried in my skin

that you crane your head toward the sky
only as an illustration of imagined flight

and that I am only leaving
my vulgar Cassiopeia's message
blinking on the screen

so that you, justified and free
may seek your Perseus
and still proclaim yourself so much better than me