Like a tripwire in the dark,

a minefield, a starfield.

Rife with diffuse opinions and grenades,

Rife with biology

and really willing it into existence,

willing you into existence.

Singing so loud that it drips down your chest,

placing the moon in the sky and letting go,

and letting it drip down your chest, as well.

Wounded I will limp away,

and thinking

“ my god my horse abandoned me before I abandoned it”

amethyst and abalone, its all the same.

These wounds,

These pearls.

Your wounds and my wounds too,

They stop bleeding but still they persist….as wounds, and as pearls.

as infections and as endings, and as pearls.

They are laughing from the bleachers, and in rafters and in the closets,

in the cheap seats too.

The section closest to that moon?

I’d rather not know.

The section closest to you?

I’d rather not know.

Howling, resplendent, I can climb back into the arena.

Straight into the badlands,

headlong into monuments,

so far way from your arms.

Through tolls,

through digital screens that stare back.

Without my eyes on the keyboard,

I can taste victory,

distracted by you, and distracted by anyone who wants to shake hands with me,

as they step out and step away.

Wading down here,

waiting for the floor to dry,

waiting for all of it to drip down my chest,

past my feet

past the barnacles,

only as pearls…

(Originally Published on Medium 11/3/2021 by Matthew Hopkins . Originally titled ” Barnacles” )