Epitaphs

God died on a Friday

and on a Saturday my body

stopped working, stitched to a deathbed.

Every day a window is left open

for the dust to settle

atop sweaty, kiss-ridden foreheads.

Remember that when birds are dead,

then so am I. Hitched breaths, forgive me!

The stars behind my eyelids are getting brighter now.

My tingling skin explodes with longing,

rivers form sentences—isolated, unheard

from across islands abandoned for something greater.

Letters creased at the corners

where hands are supposed to touch.

As Sunday sings another lullaby.