Ode to my skin

I have the skin of an apple with old wounds wrung dry.
Wounds in our skin
 our breath 
like manholes 
like pools 
where we try to hide.
I have the skin of a floor with ink stains craft over a poem 
a floor where knees pray ,
A drizzle terms into a pool,
And a  thirsty tongue lay.
I have the skin of a fossil gazed burgainville,
wilderness choped out, 
sniffing for perfumes never owned,
and wilting 
I have the skin of a rustic wall playing under a summer breeze.
Painting rainbows over porcelain petals a serpent moves,
slicing the metal tongues I own.
My skin is a season 
where migrating birds 
decide to commit suicide,
letting the songs they
hold in their ember beaks
to go unheard.
A hemlock veil,
where foggy clouds of a  dream walk in two legs 
not afraid of cat calls.
My skin talks of stories_
orphaned and mushy, 
Warm like a mushroom soup,
Cold as a heart of dead.
May be listen?
May be touch?
May be love?

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