Paled-peach moonlight and plagiary.
Some hearts since broken.
I lost a card under a tree.
No words since spoken.
Forgot where I was bent to be.
Smokin’ on spices.
His body’s gone, sent out to sea.
Sugarless spices.

Wrote a tale and called it my own work–
These are not my own words,
they're nothin' but ruminations of
the echoes of my own two feet 'gainst
panes of glass:

Fetishes and fish scales.
Tattoo inks traipsing through
brushed bodies and dyed sinks.
*****, breadth, and beach-sand pales.
Set-to-stun eyes drawn where
none but sunrise had been.
Entertained and enticed.
Spending nights scrubbing meat,
washing scents from my skin.
****** if he remembers.
This mind's been done, drawn out,
all's swift-diced 'fore dawn's out–
Yea, I remember him.

Opening doors.
Listening deep into the dusk's din,
there's nothin' but the hum of a fan
through stark, sterile silence–
Sentimental foot-prints in the sand.

Silver-seamed sunsets.
Sole sailors soul-searchin’ whole seas.
Forest fire sunsets.
Forgettin’ where we ought to be.
I never think of you.
You best not dare to think of me.
Morn’s made out like bruised fruit
fallen 'neath forget-me-not trees.