Handshake In Your Mouth - East Of The Wall

The distant mock of warmth: an aftertaste of the bodies' greeting collision

You’ll never feel that again

I thought I saw a rising tide dissolving the streets, and leaving blank shores

I strained to hear the distant waves encroaching, eroding wood and home

I can’t recall the sound of footsteps, the scent of skin

It washed away with the taste of ashes.

I grind my teeth but it’s gone

As we walk, we’ll pass through the last of night, sick with dust and smiles

The mock of warmth: you’ll never feel that again