Sweetened Black

Sugared architecture, our bones are filo dough,
spun sugar twirled from wrist to wisk.
If ever the funnel cake spoke, it would call you
peach-lips, creamsicle kiss, it would swoon
until the cherries plopped down from their long limbs
heavy with the weight of their deep dark pits.

Hold on

Was it don't hold on?
Hold on to me?
Holding on isn't worth a thing?
Hold on, but not too tight?

I reached out to you.
you were dead-cold
but speaking truths like
the apocolypse was on the cloudkeep.

Was it, holding on only hurts
you?
What did you tell me?
I need it.
Hold on
is all I can remember.