sprinklings of soft flour
scattered upon teal green kitchen tiles
well wishings and moving chairs
make soft background noises
I look up at the deep red of your apron
the business suit of the old fashioned woman
you pick me up and place me on the tiles
Usually cold, they're warm in the kitchen's heat
I smile as I draw a tree through the flour
you look down on me and laugh
such warmth and happiness in your smile
that split second of attention, all I needed,
to progress through the cinnamon smelling household
on a day perfect for lying.

We are slaves of the night,
thinking,
forever may not exist.

I failed, I stumbled,
but you were there
to remind me of tomorrow.

I may not be perfect,
but my heart
burns like ice.

We are slaves of the night,
you and I
are living stories.

I touched a fire once,
Unwillingly,
Unknowingly,
We are from the sea,
But not all are one with the sea,
Black, Deep, Rough,
Terrifying traits we all posses,
Like that of our womb.
If you're not happy in the ocean
You're the devil in disguise.
There are few who've rose from the core,
The flames red and hot like their passion,
And i touched one once,
Unwillingly,
Unknowingly.

do not date a girl
who writes.
she will internalize
everything,
carve poems
into your eyelashes
instead of
kissing them,

she will analyze you,
calculate age
from the rings
your coffee cup
leaves
instead of refilling it.

she will memorize
the way your
lips curl around steam,
but not that you
take it
two sugars,
no cream.

she will read your
palm instead of
holding it
against her chest.

she will not
blink
when you leave,
because she is
already
romanticizing it.

You cannot own my river
but I will let you name the sea,
with its fortressed depth
and alien life,
all out of sight and out of mind;
the poisoned sustenance of brine.

Leave the blame at my feet
and forget me over time,
you can take the roads
leading north,
if you allow me to take the south,
with no chance of a future collide.

We can cut a deal over the reservoir
if I can retain the quarry,
it was never yours
from the start,
but you can play the victim's harp,
whilst I tattoo over my scars.

I will sing for the Star of Bethlehem,
you can fall into the arms of David,
you can make it out and
pay your dues,
shine lights onto your winter blues,
whilst I anaesthetise each painful bruise.

You can paint over the wallpaper
whilst I am replacing all my strings,
we can change the meaning
to our favourite songs,
I will sever the ties to unalterable tunes;
all of those words that lead back to you.