My head is a treasure chest full of these fantasies.

And she can sever it from the precious river of blood--
Then a slow decay will work upon my locked skull.

She can peer inside, and decide I'm not a gate to heaven
But a dead branch, a stop along the way
Better used as fodder for another life, another day.

We can talk, and tease
And play that way.

But this is the reason I toil under the hard sun:
She can open up my mind
And wear my thoughts like jewels on her holy head.

She smiles as she adorns herself with my deepest loves
The fruits of my labor become the clothes that she wears.

O woman, won't you come open up my chest
And harvest this hard-fought loyalty from my weeping soul?

The last FaceTime call I ever had with you was on a Monday night.

And you offered to call me.

You know, heaven forbid I ask you.

I was too shy and cowardly, and I didn't want to seem so desperate.

I'm bouncing between thoughts because I'm sick of everything.

And beyond that, the world is sick of me being sad.

I haven't touched my calendar in a week.

I stopped just before the Monday of last week.

And it just stays.

I'm not asking for a time machine.

I'm just waiting for something..


And I don't really know what it is.

(explicit)

**** my soul
        with poetry
           scream out my gracious name
             slay me with words
               that peel my layers
                and simultaneously
                                   drive me
                                           insane

finger me slowly, hotly
with just the right rhythm and rhyme
    push me past my
                 tender limits
                       into tongues of syntax,
                                                      sublime

a­lliterate my senses
   (in swift stac
                    c-at
                           o)
until my mind is but blank verse
    mess up my stressed
              and unstressed syllables
in unsung language, versed

I will speak to you in vowels
(the only sound
       I will be able to make)
as you stroke
   my iambic pentameter
             in the heat of frothed-up
                                                     ache

we are this heroic couplet, you see
        even if the meaning seems veiled
           no need for simile or metaphor
               as I feel your chest rise
                              in deep inhale

we are a natural paradox
       so many ironies abound
         discordant harmony
is our synaesthesia
     in visible darkness found

and I love this delicious enjambment
as your aura invisibly slips
                               into mine
our lines have no beginning,
                                 no end
    as we undo
          the boundaries
                      of time