FROM EARTH WITH LOVE, ALSO SOME OTHER EMOTIONS ❋ Sarah Edwards

Choose one of my knees that run a bruised river
pick one because I know how empty it is in space
& bruises are like a magenta galaxy that
only the earthiest ants wrap around their
tiny bodies as a maternal blanket
& only humans bleed when they bite in
the rotten face of a plum tree
silent ants lost in the vine pool of their inner lip.

Why do humans do that?

Why is mortality a swimming pool for fruit flies?

Why can’t we shelter ants inside the barren holes on our chin?

Just like the stars sheltered your insecurities in uneven blinks.

Hey spaceman! Forget gravity & make love to the 500 ton sky brain
you can float & I will close my eyes so you
can make love to bush babies crunching on your breath
in the form of astronaut diet 101 & careful of
the stardust, it’s dripping aluminium skin to fill
the gaps in between our toes with pieces of bodily contact.

Faulty messages on each birthday since facebook banned
inter galactic sex positions & now every year you send me
a static kiss & it’s killing me, literally!
No I am serious!
I am dying.
We all are dying but look at my knees
you sleep for each year I had been breathing & your carbon fiber
pill doesn’t allow you to dream of me or to dream of the worms
in the mud underneath my feet & I had been touching

touching & waiting
waiting when the only warmth is the distance of the sky in your face

you are growing a new face & your underwear is one I’ve never seen

my face has long since stopped growing & my only touch is the
slight tickle of the worms that still writhe in secret on the senile spots of my knees.

You came & you came again, but only on the pillow at my side.
It’s too bitter to live on the side for an eternity or even for 80 years.
It’s no use anymore, your head plug doesn’t support the USB key of my bite marks.

No it’s no use & my fingernails are yellow forever

the river has no moisture in it’s moan & rain dried long before my 100th year

don’t look at my knees when your oxygen is not enough
the smell of plastic limbs
(they smell of corpses)
they smell of juvenile blowjobs written in my hair

& now the bruises live not even in memory.
Not in yours, not for me in my skin.

Not in my memory, not in my skin folds.

But who cares really.

There are trees that live for 3000 years & we pretend to blame paper cuts for our tired apologies.