She hung on to the edge
afraid to fall
back into the same routine
of plucking petals
and mending broken things.

Her wings, a mess
feathers meshed with hate and lies
from past lovers that scrutinized
the way she drew the skies
with her silhouette
ensuring she would never find
the will to rise or ever fly.

Her wings.

Argema mittrei


Parading in your shade of grey
with fragile wings
torned to bits by the harrowing winds
of angry voices reminding you
that you are not a butterfly.

Tormenting taunts
feeds the loathing that grows inside
An assassination of a ******'s pride
reminding you that you are not a butterfly
As though moths were never meant to fly.

As if your wings didn't carry you
Across the reflections of buried moons
And how you rebuilt your tattered wings
From scattered dreams that buried you.

You are a different breed of beautiful.

My skin prickles against the wind
like a fire dancing in a storm
but just as the flames
make way for the rain
the smoke shields a desolate heart.

Your silhouette pressed against
cascading drops;
How refreshing is your soul
enchanted by pain and regret?

How have these scars made you?
How has this storm saved you?

She wanted me to learn to play
the way she played
when her soul yearned
the subtle notes
of a chaotic melody.

The way her fingers moved
across the keys
reminded me of the way in which
leaves would tumble from trees
but travel across universes
before settling down.

Her voice was that
of a mighty ocean
with gentle waves
that rocked the biggest of boats
beneath the pale moon spotlight.

"We could be a band"
she said.

But our big gig
wasn't performed in front of a crowd
or for judges...


we played for each other.

She gripped the sheets
because she knew she'd be afraid
to fall deeper into this abyss
that our love had created before us.

She was ripe with longing
and beauty;
Flushed as the heat rushed
to her cheeks
and painted her skin
a soft red.

She bit into her lip
because she'd rather bleed
than surrender
to the way that my lips traced
her fragile being.

Her hips were like oceans;
begging me to venture deeper,
slowly rising as the moonlight engulfed the horizon.

She was the sweet water
from a trickling stream
that swelled at the river's edge
before cascading through the sky
like the Victoria Falls.

She tasted of desire;
bruised but filled
with a richness
that devoured the hunger
in my starving soul.

It is beautiful irony
the way in which
I have grown accustomed
to the phenomenon of you.

We were water in the open air;
Fluidly in tune
and with each ripple across the surface
I fell deeper in love
with the way that you moved.

The subtle ways in which
you're stir your tea;
the steam reminding you of last night
when our bodies waged wars
and conquered one another.

The revolutionary ardor
that decorated the smile you paraded around;
teasing the feeble flesh of men
that craved a sip
of your poisonous nectar.

I have grown accustomed
to the way in which the confusion
pulls the veil over my eyes
as you give away pieces of my heart
disguising them as your own.

How warm is your touch
against the barren wasteland
that is my soul?

As we lay here, the dying sun
gives us one last taste of freedom
before falling from the sky.

Beneath a blanket of night
you find the courage
to remove the layers of insecurities
clinging to your fragile bones
like flesh.

We intertwine
and as our bodies become entangled
you whisper words of release
as your core throbs
to the pace that I've set for us.

You dare not utter a moan
for the silence has claimed us
in this moment of passion;

stealing your voice
but giving you something
greater in return.