I hope to arrive at my death late, in love, and ******.
So that one day, once all the senseless metaphors of woman and fruit
Are peeled and devoured
You can revive my empty body
Where we can sit between winter pomegranates,
Like we used to when we were young.

A soul’s vine is encased with demise.
Towering stalks desiccate to bister mummies and
Aflush dreams of romance capsize into sour, obsidian soil.  

Exhausted leaves crumble when the sun goes down
And amber tears of stinging sap drizzle from hollow sepal’s
That once hugged tender safad petals in the raw night
Like a child clinging to their eham biar yadashte.

Eclipsed roots search for taskeen semblance.
Divest thorns flourish on their throne,
Devouring golden seeds of promise.

Tishna fruit wither into ember dust,
Particles brushing away in the restless wind
Until all that lays are flattened memories

Forgotten, forsaken, fanni.

Word Search
Machana Ruh (roo): A Wilting Soul
Safad: Pure milky white
Eham biar yadashte: That feeling of something from our childhood that gave us inanimate affection. Something we, still to this day, can not let go of because it carries all our intimate memories and emotions (Like a teddy bear or blanket).  
Taskeen (Tash-kean): The warm feeling of home
Fanni (Fa-nee): Mortal fragility
Tishna: When a person is dehydrated to the point of death

Inhaling yellow
Smoke rushes through our veins.
You lay your body on ember ground next to mine;
Rolling over our eyes till speckles of ecstasy fill our vision.

I tilt my head back and look at you: Smooth rich coffee.    
A decadent sculpted chest carved from Michelangelo centuries ago,
Your gleaming skin reflecting music.

Giggling through heaving lungs of fog,
We joke about your cold fingers writing cursive on my thighs:  
A laborer’s hand gripping clouds.  

You look at me and see pearly cream:
Resonant curls sprawled across the floor like my melting limbs,
Ready for you to turn me into red wine.

A ***** of heat hits another bowl
And smoke rises through the vents
To dance on your bonny blush lips.

You think I'm fragile
With my lace stockings and butterfly wing lids,
You could rip through my tissue coating.

We breathe in smog.
The air between our bones escapes: pupils dilate,
Flashes of bliss sparkling colors surround us till that is all we see.  

Our souls, laying on the spinning floor,
Tearing the fabric from our bones
Till all is left is smoke and sweat.

I remember when I was young,
glancing at the broken ceiling. I could imagine
A frigid chill, sweeping beneath the curtains.
A cold hand around mine.
The day Robin Williams hung himself
I could feel the coarse fibers of a rope press
Against my throat, and blood curdle in my lungs.
I saw the way he made the cries silent;
An artist capturing composure,
I became inspired.
That broken ceiling became my muse,
And time starts to fade.
I can feel myself bitter; inhaling blood.
I always knew I would die young.

Before Sun assents into the ether,
I stand with bare feet on a ligneous deck,
A vastness of green,
So that I can watch Mist rise above the hill tops
to greet me with a brisk embrace.  

Reddening the palms of my hands,
A warm clay cup, brimming with bitter, rich liquid,
Emits silky Steam which dances with Mist,
Floating up towards Moon, now fading into blue.  

And while Steam and Mist entangle their tails
I sit, watching them play as I breath in musky Smoke,
Absconding from a glass pipe.

Smoke blows away, much like sultry clouds,
And foils the waltz construed by warmth and cold.
Every sway and bend,
Coil and twist,
Delicately sweeping through the air;

Mist, Steam, and Smoke dance together
Becoming the sky and the air I breathe
Until the Sun arises, and it is time to go inside.

When your last bit of breath abandoned you
On a warm, humid night, I was there,
Saddling the road, as you draped across the yellow lines.  
You looked up at me with blood in your eyes,
And spoke with it in your voice,
I know I am going to die.

At your funeral I was shaking,
No one told me that grief and fear are brothers,
Side by side even on the brightest of days.
Your headstone was noticeably new in this breeding ground of tears.
And all I could muster was the thought,
*******.

You are gone,
Yet pieces of this Earth still belong to you;
Dripping in the scent of your oak cologne
Reminding me of everything you could have been - we could have been.  
You are gone,
And I am jealous.

You always were selfish, even in death.
It should have been me sprawled across the asphalt,
Ruptured in two; a wilting soul.  
But on that night we seemed to be too drunk in our youth to notice
life’s cursory glance.