walking wells

She always gives him two days 'fore she sends the bucket down to fetch him. Claws up grateful, having forgotten in the dark and the cold, forgotten all about the bucket. Spent two days pelted by her wishes, lost track of the edges of the pennies in the blackness and forgot all the outlines of the faces.
She always gives him two days 'fore she reteaches him the branches of breathing. Warmth against his blue lips, gives her air as his, borrowing leaves. Sings melancholy songs brushing out his hair. Sighs clouds out from the deep wells of his eyes. He fell in only two days ago, but those places without time or light can steal away all kinds of things.
He sits in the kitchen chair. Drops from the ghosts of past lovers cling dangerous on his clothes. Hands clenched around fists of friends. Shakes dirt from his ears. This earth has owned him too long. Dirt from his ears till he hears a far away song. Wraps him like wool, still blind he sits, waits for the cold to thaw. Waits for spring. Maybe a bird is in the kitchen again. His eyes are stuck in well water, bend light back in like a spoon, a star already exploded. And his chest is a vacuum. He hasn't tasted air in so long.
She always gives him two days.