Aching all over

it's one of those days when
you feel like trading
your backbone for
crimson kisses
or your collarbone for
cotton clusters of
oblivion

your being is not a being anymore,
but the open abyss
of two fleshy rocks
that refuse to collide

the peaks of your fingertips
are charred with blue
and your knees
are seeping through
the bone-
what good does man-made reason do
when the wire running
from eye to eye
is damned by
raw blood?

I wish to halt,
to linger,
to cease

it's one of those days when
you feel like trading
your blooming skull
for bliss