I love you so much
when you cry;
my eyes follow the glistening
stream winding saccharine
from your widened eyes,
eyelids batting, begging for a home
run to chase the pain away.

Tears refract the light
and you are a pool of rainbows shimmering
in the ripples that my gauze thumbs make
but the stitching is too
l  o   o   s   e
to hide all of the tears.

My lips sojourn at your kopje nose
before prowling at the edge
of the watering hole ,
sunset draped across your cheeks
and fading fast as moist night settles.

This close, so close,
lashes like willow limbs
and dripping dregs of whisper rain
as our eyes, behind ocean veil,
exchange supernovas bursting wide
enough
to collapse into black holes.

but I have to say that the poets here, unknown behind computer screens, inspire me more than the "famous" poets ever have, no matter how many Pulitzer Prizes they've won or books they've sold. They may have guided me to the road of loving poetry but the awesome people here are the fuel that keeps me speeding along it.
So yeah, thanks.

Your lips are wet,
****** clean by your tongue
darting insolently,
giving the game away.
Your lips burn red
in angry anticipation
and agitated by the
hot
raw
sting
of your racing breath.
Your eyes are ink,
you spilled it with trembling hands
over your coffee liqueur
irises but
I drank them anyway.

I see you, past
lovers, fighting in the corners
of my eyes
for the apple to bite down upon.
I see you, shades
of what I can love
and what I can leave behind,
each blow a sign of strength
as your taboo names
explode under my fingertips
and the debris coats
my intestinal walls
for my dying cells to take all that they can.

It pulls me. It tugs at the crinkled corners of my mind until I am stretched so thin that my elastic muscles are about to whip back. I am pushed to the precipice of breaking point, looking down upon the drop dipping so deep that I can't bear to imagine what the floor looks like. It tugs at the crinkled corners of my mind. The Mariana Trench squeezes water columns through my veins and the pressure stiffens my limp limbs so that I lie in rigor mortis across an ocean of silk carpet. My chambered nautili organs withdraw within the equiangular spirals of their shells. It tugs at the crinkled corners of my mind. I am stretched and I bend my stiffened limbs until they creak at the joints. Synovial fluid weeps through my tearing skin to fall between yearning fingers. Cartilage grinds to a halt. It tugs at the crinkled corners of my mind. There is no energy for resistance and my muscle filaments cling in a final embrace. Rigor mortis. The precipice is now a mirage and my camel eyes wander on regardless. It tugs at the crinkled corners of my mind. I am stretched and the momentum knocks me forwards. I am falling and I am drowned before I reach the sea floor.
It pulls me.

Two relatives feeling distant
As time moulds each new birth
Into a symbol of the changing world
Drinking in the suns changing light
(From its womb directly or
From the cuvetus face of the moon)
And Narcissus stands, arms wide
Enveloping his kin in sweeping grace
His face dancing the sun's dance across the sky;
He is an over-arch of all their quirks,
Diluted so that the complexities
Are a fleeting dream on the tongue
And his colours are an assault on the eye.

Jonquil in yellow petticoat
Perhaps the wallflower of the dance,
Juvenile grace in her open face
That breathes its own unique airs;
She gleams her simple hue,
A definition within herself
As she unknots her roots from the rest
And pioneers her garden anew.