Listen up, sweater.

   take good care of my love now

         when her joy is boundless, hop around like a fool and
         revel in the excitement of each crisp little sound

                and in the cold nights lay warm beside her, whether as
                pillow or cuddlee and be the soft whisper for hands to hold
                the mooring point for beautiful dreams

                       (you are hers while I'm away because
                             I am hers no matter where I go)

            and in that rustle of fabric, that cloth to smooth skin
            do speak my name
                                 and retain all our scents when we laughed in her
                                 arms so she'll smile and close her eyes and
                                 burrow into you

listen up, sweater.
               take good care of my love now

Touch me,
it doesn't matter where
and it doesnt matter how
I need to know I'm still alive
so someone touch me now
Shake my hand and say hello
or pat me on the back
kiss me on the cheek
that I may feel this sense I lack
slap my face and pull my hair
make me bleed I just don't care
dig your nails into my skin
so I can feed this need within
I've been numb for such a time
that even pain would be sublime
so touch me, touch me now
I don't care where, I don't care how

I'm beginning to get shabby,
       delving into so many disciplines
  
    unkempt, really
              but composure is  
         unnecessary at best when
       you're like I am and know
    why you get up each morning

hey, sorry
I think I ended on the wrong
note- (supposed to be a C but anyways)

I didn't mean to cry, honest
sat there in the car after you had left just
replaying all the time we've spent out here
and how we probably won't be back
ever (what a powerful word that is) or
at least for a considerable while

it overwhelmed me a bit, that and
our candle selves burning to ashes while
they set your pants on fire (I will find you
some new ones tomorrow, I promise)

only I can never free the words from my heart
(they want) so (badly to be heard by you)

please hold me and tell me you'll miss me, even
if that's (stretching the truth a little)

because I'm fizzling like a
flame under tears
and smiling at the same time, so
happy to know you for
who you are

I want a poet
between my thighs,
wicked tongue wrapped
in verse,
drive and provoke,
serenade
this dancing knot
of prose hidden here,
a hungry mound
saturated beneath a soft
cocoon of sweltering flesh,
suspended in expectation
inspired to spill forth
steaming compositions
sticky on his epic lips,
grinning.

And he’ll rise then
breathing a new stanza
onto my fragrant neck
“Sandalwood,” he’ll whisper
as he fills me with a new
refrain
emphatically taunts
my music
to sing down onto
his tightened fuse,
running rivulets spiraling
along his determined thighs,
crying out into his
listening ear,
a requiem so potent it
drips off the page
and becomes some reality.