All my hope rests with you, aflame.
The yellow heat of your hair
corrects the simple nothing that rests in my stomach,
a knot of weak loneliness.
I yearn to swallow you down,
my lips and mouth making trails along your skin:
neck, *******, belly, inner thighs.
I drink your honey,
I gorge on the reciprocal desire dripping from your hive.
Like drunken gyroscopes,
my eyes roll back into my skull
at the heady scent of your innocence.
All the meaning
in all the art
in all the places
in the history
of the world,
uncovered and shamed
in comparison to the luminous existence
my breath finds in contact
with your flesh.

Love has an empty story to tell,
and I am sick of listening.

My stomach is full of feathers,
and in the same manner with which you pour venom from your eyes,
I leak ozone from my pores.

There isn't enough time in the world for me to impress you
to the point of ******.

I cut little pieces of your words apart
in my head, like paper dolls. Pulled
apart slowly
(don't tear),
stretched in an accordion waltz.

The tune they sing
is spoiled milk.

My favourite pet daydream,
(her combustion creates me)
that I eagerly await
to set fire to flames.

She lay in her victorious gesture,
a breath of longing,
stutters dislocating his jaw.
Her illumination, a scent memory,
she was the most acute,
vigorous testimony
of truth,
of history,
his feeble heart
could dream.

I'm skipping stones on your plain
surface risking nothing
but every corrosive moment
in the clutch of feathered sadness,
dripping in milk.

I long to slip
beneath your surface,
but I freeze everything
I touch.