It’s tough “love”
not
tough love

we seek beauty in our mortality,
in the circulation of the human blood
the agony of life lingers in our veins and
heats our frozen hearts,
and we find love in
the longing for death

written across my anatomy,
a brilliant Poetica:

lips part/
line breaks

the dimple in my jaw

an

a
c
r
o
s
t
i
c

clavicles
mere sisters of verse

fingerprints are but
whirlpools
of apostrophe and quotation

the trellis of my ribs
composed of
stanza

behind

my papyrus heart
dwells

every beat
a turning page--

and this is my story

no thoughts.

only bees.

Missing out or
being left beind
which is worse?




As if you had the choice ...

The ****
is mightier than the
sword