Perhaps We Were All Made of Glass - Olive Murray

The horizon, stretched out in front of me, looked 
like a great ochre mass, pillars of land that stretched 
up for years, reaching towards stars that were 

obscured only by the sun, which hung low in the 
late Augustine sky. Her visage was blue, and his 
was blue. The road was long, long, long, with emphatic 
choruses of passing semi-trucks, and all I could think of 
was you and your shaking hands of tempered glass. Times 
like these, I needed relief. A quiet, frantic mass of histamines 
gathering within sinus', just waiting to explode. As if, 
by some unclear voyage, I was made unholy by the presence 
of you within my mind. I think there was an answer, 
somewhere, in the dark; that dark was made darker by 
the absence of streetlamps, just headlights to illuminate
that blackest tarmac, which glided seamlessly beneath 
the wheels of a beast. 

I'm tired of writing poems about you, but somehow 
your eyes slip back into my mind, as if to remind me 
of your existence. I thought I grew up and away from you, 

when we were all trying to learn how to live without 
destroying ourselves; when our minds were 

made of marijuana smoke and chemical highs; our 
liver's merely siphons for us to pour more liquor into; 
when our bodies were exhumed from the mass grave, 
they found no hearts to examine: they had already been 
ripped out and thrown into your frantic maw. 

Perhaps we were all made of glass, and the tempering merely happened during your long hours of desert isolation; was it the fall that made you lonely, or I?

Perhaps we were all made of glass. 

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.

Perhaps We Were All Made of Glass by Bella Murray