You Are Not

I sent a far cry, hoarse jumping
against breathing on
every broken sleep wall
to find the one false edge
that wouldn't see me back.

So I would fall light
between the frayed roots stretched
over the dead of the concrete,
lending my joints away
to weed a spilled lock.

So I would hear the snagged drum
tap the ragged seams,
make the dark hunger in song
husked from lips of ripe pulp.

You are not the one
patching that swollen lonesome
hack of a closed door,
nor the one to tug me out
asleep in this crowded silence.