While she's getting her
hair done, I'm in the
pub where the bartender-
lady is hung over,
playing Alanis Morissette
unplugged

and asking me without a word
not to speak to her

but listen quietly to
would you forgive me, love,  
if I danced in your shower,

and I'm more than happy to
sit at the bar with a pint of

lager and break radio silence
by whispering

got any Eva Cassidy?
as she looks up from her coke

and whispers back
*I could marry you. Yes.

Our butterflies, and sweet, rosebuds,
Languishing lazily within a dream,
Once together, but now lost forever,
In fading memory’s drifting stream.

We shared every pleasure, she and I,
Two girls embracing, love so sweet,
Tasting our butterflies and rosebuds,
Consuming our passion’s, *****-heat.

We explored all nature had to offer,
Sun-drenched glades, darkened woods,
Fantasising, and illicitly tantalising,
Our butterflies, and sweet, rosebuds.

Babe called me Film Noir
Said my head was darker than onyx, ashes and ebony,
And I was soaking in a solace that was felt with my presence,
Like hot candle wax dripped down the spine.

Film Noir with more than fifty shades of grey,
And messages I liked to leave in his pants pocket
"God is Dead" to deepen his uncertainty of faith.
Merlot on my tongue like a mouthful of blood while I watch him unravel.

Babe called me Film Noir
Said I always felt like home,
Like home was hell and made you anxious and suicidal,
Like a door with nothing behind it.

Film Noir that was art and lovely and terrifying.
And appreciated for it's talent of deepening wounds that were thought to be already healed.
Then kissed them apologetically, stitching them closed,
But so insincere.

Maybe now he's my Film Noir,
So tragically ending our love.
Like broken china on the floor of the parlor,
So precious to look at, but unusable and a waste.
Till the day he took his life
Babe called me Film Noir.

i will wade out
                        till my thighs are steeped in burning flowers
I will take the sun in my mouth
and leap into the ripe air
                                       Alive
                                                 with closed eyes
to dash against darkness
                                       in the sleeping curves of my body
Shall enter fingers of smooth mastery
with chasteness of sea-girls
                                            Will i complete the mystery
                                            of my flesh
I will rise
               After a thousand years
lipping
flowers
             And set my teeth in the silver of the moon

THEY have painted and sung
the women washing their hair,
and the plaits and strands in the sun,
and the golden combs
and the combs of elephant tusks
and the combs of buffalo horn and hoof.
  
The sun has been good to women,
drying their heads of hair
as they stooped and shook their shoulders
and framed their faces with copper
and framed their eyes with dusk or chestnut.
  
The rain has been good to women.
If the rain should forget,
if the rain left off for a year-
the heads of women would wither,
the copper, the dusk and chestnuts, go.
  
They have painted and sung
the women washing their hair-
reckon the sun and rain in, too.

Souls have no meaning here,
This is reckless behavior.
In the wrong places,

I am impatient and let the future get blurry.

I cannot make a decision at this point in time
If I am okay with the fact I carry no value to the one I let hold me.

I am laying exhausted next to someone
Who does not love my thoughts,
And brushes over my words with his own.

I am restless next to someone who's parents and friends I am not allowed to meet,
And leaves empty beer cans scattered after a night with his boys.  

But it doesn't feel as terrible as I thought it would.