fullest bookshelves you will ever see
soft hazel eyes hiding behind stiff blue frames
loads of pillows and fuzzy warm blankets
reading poetry in secret nooks and crannies
curly all-over-the-place cascading brown locks
dancing in the early springtime drizzles
movies with huge tubs of butter-drenched popcorn
laying in the lush grass, fingers stretching for the clouds
pens tucked behind ears, in coat sleeves, and on window sills
raspy, off-key, unabashed shower singing
friday night new netflix show marathon
awkward attempts at kind-of-sort-of flirting
secret stash of every single type of chocolate
complete list of the world's cheesiest pickup lines
bottom lip biting in intense concentration
well-worn copies of shakespeare's best plays
mindlessly wandering streets for hours on end
love songs, romantic surprises, that one perfect sonnet

good god, good girl

When the moon hovers hallucinated
on the post canal
breaking in bubbles of fish breath
the white widow of the night
revives her long dead tongue
to lick the scales of your skin
pulling you into her bed of nails
making love with you the whole night
leaving you bruised and insatiate
when they find your shadow
scouring the edge of the canal
with her name on its lip.

Leaves' dancing shadows on the piece of sun
missing the keen eyes
rebound on the vacant space.

The man played with shadows
weaving them into whimsy shapes
before most of them were pulps of paper
gone into the bin of night.

If not for light
would be no shadows
he was always churning in his mind
probing dark holes of moon
going into shady nooks
seeking playfully alive shadows.

The dead casts no shadows
he brooded
on the space he would leave

but he wished
they had
when he wasn't around.