She tastes like
a hot
chocolate
On a cold
Winters day.


She smells like
Freshly washed
Bedsheets
On a chilly
spring day.

She sounds like
The rain on
The window
On a rainy
summers day.

She feels like
The wind in
Your hair
On a windy
Autumn day.

as much as i loathe the familiarity of your frame
i can't help but be mesmurized by your face
     the look of your lips and the shape they take
as you wrestle the bottle to death


     i confess
     it's something i dream of
as the nightmares change their shapes

My desk is never clean.
pipes and wads of paper
broken pencils and half full glasses of water
a mostly finished bottle of wine.
the cork is lying around here somewhere
my wax melter spilled little candles
and there is a thin layer of kief under my mat.
I do everything here
with a rolling chair I found
I'm not sure where anymore
draped coat arms dance when I spin around
in the chair, swinging up to say hello
to me, pen in hand,
a fresh glass of water to soon join the others
and a lamp that is too bright for my eyes