Did you barter for your cow-eyes?
Trade a lock of hair - or David's lyre?
For the right to the king,
The golden apple. Taking a bite of (lust.)
the knowledge of good, evil, and discord.
Looking into the eye of the LORD
(saying mine, all mine.)
For a soak in full view- seems a glimpse was all it took (but you took it all).
Bathsheba - mastering Venus, flouting Juno-
Did you barter for your white arms?

You wrote your name on my
white sand beach,
my ****** page -
eight by eleven
stranger to the (press) -
in a white wax crayon.

There are times when I forget you're there
(in white on my white page)
and the pads of my fingertips
flit across its surface
until they
skid, stunting, across your signature.

(But it gets worse)
because I'm surrounded by brilliant colors -
blue violets, crimson fields
but when I dip my (proverbial) brush
and attempt to stain my
****** white page -
the color seeps around your seal,
but never over (it's never over).

They highlight your stifling presence
on my page
with how inherently not you they are.
And I wish I could scratch you out
(without) ripping my white, now crimson,
page.

Everyone else is the water color to your crayola.

Losing you was never the plan.
But neither was the whimpering
night that spilt from your mouth
into the cavity of my wistful ear.
Lies of omission, I love you without the but
But it was there, cold beneath the velvet, lying in wait till the second I fell the hardest.
*No more flying carpets, darling.
You're going to hit the ground.

Let’s take a nap

in the sun

in the spring.

But no rain, just a bow in my hair,

and a smile behind closed lids,

as your body outlines mine.

I don’t know what love is, but I feel it
anyway.
In every shutter of my eyelashes,
Each time my thumb brushes my lip
Running my fingers through my own hair.
Subconsciously willing him to appear.
It makes me feel beautiful.
It makes everything beautiful.

They said it was the ocean -
when you cupped the pink shell to your infant ear and they (lied)
in order to show you the beauty
that sifts through the world like flour.
But the truth is the beauty.
The journey of your blood,
the sound of your self -
pumping, rushing -
They'll still say its the ocean when you use your own (hand).

I watched a leaf fall from a floating place in time
landing on the wet ground with the rest of the refuse.
She took the money and ran
(or did you expect her morality to beat her poverty into
a docile submission)
I watched the clouds block the burning moon,
cementing night into the earth and
taking the light all for themselves.
(born on the street but playing in the gutter
with the rest of the rich, sparkling rats)