It was the sort of day
that equates to the last day
December **** it
why is it sixty and humid enough to swim circles through the air?
yet the grey mist suffocates the horizon
and the light mist tastes like a city
the cat standing on driveways of crumbling mansions
running with fur puffed up from wild dogs snarling at choke chain collars
The trees are all hiding their heads in the sand
and each building passed decays in decadence
everybody hungry enough to do something they might regret
men and women taking shelter in zoo enclosures
to avoid the jungle cats which stalk the streets beneath blood red hunters' moons
It was the kind of day to make me want to see the next

When I called the visual appeal of your body topography, you laughed. You misunderstood.
The sharp angles, the planes, the curves and the hollows of your body, of your skin stretched thin over bone, these are what I find beautiful. This is the topography of you, the places I want to map with my lips and teeth. The familiar places, my home within a home, my love.
Your body is geometry, trigonometry, mathematics you hate almost as much as the way I can trace your every rib and vertebrae. Perspective translates your flaws into aesthetic beauty, but your perspective is your own and you will never see what I do. I will love you enough for the both of us, darling, love your flaws more than your perfection just to give you what you deserve.

I looked at the photographs

And felt 

The weight of all of the people
I could have 

Become.

A blank canvas.
A vacant room.
A Cogitative mind.
Extraordinary Imagination.
But,
Fear of Criticism.
Lost

Rather,
Defeated.

words are better on paper and candlelight
the smell of ink and crisp turns of pages white
the binding creaks and soul writ in
this screen is not the same thing friend
it's maddening for this phone to change my words
ah, how often it does so
as if it knows
as if it grows
what could it show
when has itself,
alone so rowed
of feelings felt
or horrors shown
or magick felt
or fury spoke
or walked along a razors edge
hanging on by just a thread
or strained beyond all known thought
or had a thought that wasn't taught
or quenched a lust
so fervent wrought
or plagued its mind
with glory sought
or told a tale
that others'd not
what a soul
that this thing's got