Tenderly touch
the softness of my brevity.
Allow your fingers to embrace,
the pink lace to my soul.

With words that stroke
your back, lick your neck
and moan out a metaphor.

Pink trimmed bows on the dimple
of my back-
whispers
for your palms
to turn a page.

Come on, let it engrave
in your frontal lobe.
Leaving you
wanting more

Taste the ink from my well
I know it is inviting
to you,
him.

Let my words shower every
inch of you
cherry waves,
that keep you
aching
clawing at my door.
Crying out:

Please-
let
me
read
you
one
more
time.

I touch my feet
to your feet.
Our bodies
feel
sacred.

The
letting
down
of
great
walls
covered
in moss
on the north.
Corrode
crumble
down
the end
of
our
bed.

The
sheets
turn into
a sanctuary.
Where
whispers
and
light
kisses
become
heavy
with
the scent
of
burning
oils.

What's building
between
us
is
delicate.
Like
seeds
from a
dandelion.
Naked
at times
and
fragile.
This I must
place
on my lips
to blanket
yours.

In our love
the light from
our room
eclipse my hips
as I turn them
closer to
yours.

Your arms
wrap around
the moonlight
delicately.
It's been
a while
since
we allowed
the petals
from the wild
flowers
depetal
and become
moist with
rain that
drips
from
your
twilight.

Your skin
tastes like
sweet
almond.
Your eyes
match
the
same.
As I
become
lost in those
dark
brown
pools of
heated
spring.
The hills
of
my
body
collapse
into
your
ocean.
Only
you and I
you and I
my love
listen to it
our hearts
beating
together
in the
same
space.
Resting
on each
other
with
each other.

The river
and the
lakes
all
see
the threads
of
red
and
gold
which
thread
our souls
together
again.
you are mine
you are mine.

Moon soot

There is a citrine moon
hanging in
a starless
sky.
It eclipses
over
the tops
of trees
the dirt,
grass
and every
hollow thing
that roams
during a night
like this

It looks as if
it waters
everything,
that is dark
with crystal
tears, to feed
this twisted
valley.

I long to touch
all the darkness
that's shattered
across the places
one dares
not
to
go.

Where whispers
have
no
echoes.
Where
your
soul
is
wrapped
around
my
own.

The deepest
parts
of your
mind
that
are
hidden
beneath
the rug,
sheets
and
bed.

Let me
roll around
in your
dirt
and
wet
red clay.

Spread my hands
to touch
things that are
too afraid to
seek
the
piercing
light.

I want
to cover
my
body
in
your soot.

Get
my hair
matted
with ash
that's been
left
behind
in
your
lungs.
From all
the years
you've smoked.

Darling,
you've
embraced
the shadow
that's a part
of what
makes me
still
your
woman.

Now
I won't
let
fear
stand
at the
gate

I welcome
it in
the toad,
and
driftwood.

Let me
in the
puddles
of mud
where
you hide
from
even
yourself.
There,
we
can
be
whole.

Coffee
and
cigarettes
the truth clenching
my chest.

So I'll take it to
the dock
and leave them there
then these white lies
can greet you at the door.

There's nothing left
to explore.
When I hand feed you
what's real,
and what can't be.

You let your
mind playing games
and I'm playing Jack's
behind your back
telling to look away.

Go back to the door
where my white lies
will call your name -
the protection you
so need,
because the truth is
things unseen.

I keep it buried
in this coffee,
that whispers,
my guilt
heavy enough for two
maybe three or four

My salvations waiting
at that door.

but I'm a single man
so it's really
not that bad.

No matter what I tell you,
late at night on those same docks-
you and me we just can't see
the same pictures,
or the writing on the walls

I hide the truth
behind this cigarette
no matter how
much the cherry burns
I'll kiss your forehead
taking you back to the door
where my white lies
will sing you lullabies
so you won't cry
and I can continue to
live this double life.

A faithful husband
and a blind wife.

But I always return
to the place I started,
where we departed
even when I still hold your
heart in my hands.

Kissing strangers you don't see.
Laying with girls you can not know
cause if you did the
curtain would fall.

Like a record player
hitting that note
in the final song

Let me listen
on repeat,
with this lying coffee
and tattle tailing cigarette

I'll ignore this pain in my chest.
Keep you an ignorant wife
and the ******-
they'll never know
I'm paying one last
visit to the docks.

Stilling here 5 months later
and now I'm drinking tea.

You've been out all night
with the boys.
I expected you home later
but you said, "Hey, we're in
our thirties now."
I laugh and
you ask if I want to read
some poetry with you.
" Of course," I said
" but read the one I wrote you
last night first."
You give me a funny look
and I just smile.
" Pout, pout, pout,
I'll take all that you give."
I reply.
You're ready to read
from one of the
greats but I make you settle
for my foolish ones first.

I listen to you read
and ask if I had typos
I explained what "doe eyes" meant
and you nodded, "Ah
just a term I've never known before."

You proceed to read
from your book.
There was one about
a man getting ready for bed.
There was a knock on the door.
A woman walked in after a scary
episode of another man
attacking her.
He lets her inside.
They sit together,
the television he once had muted
now had the volume up.
And they sat there.
Ashtray between them sipping wine
together from plastic hotel cups.
Not a word spoken between them.
Just enjoying the moment
together.

Another one was about a woman poet.
She reminded me a bit of myself.
There she'd type away at poems and
hand them over to the other poet
excited to see his response.
He'd critique it and help her with edits.
In the end they drifted apart.
She'd reach out to him from time to time.
Called him her muse.

I saw a little of us in these pieces.
It made me enjoy it a bit more
Loving a poet has its pros
You get to share quiet moments together.
Such as the first poem
or you get to be a muse.

He read me just one more
from that book.
I sat and smoked
while listening.
Giggled at some parts
you did as well.
As you spoke, it
brought back fond memories-
years ago,
your lunch breaks spent
on vending machine sandwiches
and reading me poetry.

And here we are now
with a few more grey hairs
between us
still speaking the language
that is us.
My mad poet.

It's 7 AM
I've been up since 5.
My alarm buzzes and I hear you snoring.

The usual routine
dress
black stockings
and boots
I coat my lips
with a blood dark lipstick
after blotting orange blush
on my cheeks.

Opening the back door
it's a little rainy
I enjoy it when it rains a little
a lot of rain can hurt.
with lighter and cigar in hand
the cherry forms and I inhale
and exhale smoke.

The tip of my cigar gets
stained with the blood red
from my lips
I rub and rub to try to fix it.
To no success.
There's now a stain on my fingers that's a pretty color.

I leave it there.
Like a small touch of rouge
proof some things deserve to stay.

To fill my cup up with
too much sugar
not enough coffee.
My eyes fill up with
salty tears

How is your heart?
It doesn't take
much to
touch mine.
With the spin of a knife
or the softness/ sternness
in a voice.

The run of a draw of smoke
from the cherry of my cigar.
It doesn't take much to make
me light one up-
way more
than I care
to
admit.


The sound of rain
thumping on the tin roof of
my deck.
There I'd sit and
read
and re read
his poetry
it didn't take much to-
keep the fire burning
it kept me going
when all seemed
hopeless.

While reading
I'd bite my nails
give a half
smirk smile
light
another
cigar
play
tug of war
with
poems
I'd pen
trying
my best
to express
my own
loneliness.
That
didn't take too much.

The heat
from your breath
against my neck.
Your firm grip
on my soft body.
Warm water
raining down
the *****
of my spine
making my hair
stick to
my back
and arms
   like I said it doesn't take much....

I may have
a stone cold
resting
***** face.
But
I have
a tendency
to get
upset
or pout
with as
quick as
the reply
of a message.

As I said
it doesn't take too
much
for tears
smoke
moans
memories
or to call
you a

******* ****.