It doesn’t stay neat—
nothing does.
Not the room.
Not the mind.
Not the feelings
I have for you.

I spill everything out—
ink, blood, tears—
whatever I hold
too tight.

Even the rain
trips over itself,
but you call it
beautiful—
you always do.

I am a peach, juicy and pink
dripping down his chin

I am succulent lamb
tender flesh falling to pieces between his teeth

I am a strap of leather
taking his pain, with pleasure

I am a tapas
teasing his taste buds
one morsel at a time

From here to you I say
Writing is your healing,
Never let it get away.

The disconnected god of blood

The wasp of loss

I don’t have your headache, kid

A cigarette looks for its teeth
Sleep
for the older
wrist

of proximity’s
nearby
ghost

take butter knives to butterflies
alight mid-flight in a *** set to simmer

a concentration, clarification
dressed in Sunday best, their golden wings glimmer

settling susurrus, a flurry aflutter
a conga of monarchs one after the other

taste buds taking two-steps to make room for more
the doe-eyed processions march in counts of four