dear you, dear eyes
in your lovely sockets,
your presence is poetry,
an experience i cannot sculpt
into words precisely,perfectly,patiently:
pauses and punctuations, the words
i want to kiss into your mouth
and then tease with my tongue.
i seek solace/solar/suns,you dress my fingers with a
gentle grip and your scooping motions-
oh the waxing crescent moon;i see-
now i see clearly that the moon
is dark and round akin to your pupils.
once an abyss,no w a world beyondddddddd!
what blithesome business
i once thought the moon had a
face of a man and I still do but the moon
found its way to a face of a man I know.
stark silence, silly matters, subtly, just subtly
i find myself looking up/wards,wards,wards
and enjoying earnest pleasures in p
ain/eeling/inching/ulling, an unearthly joy found
between my bleeding fingers and my nails
(or lack thereof)
maybe the moon is alive,has skin,breathes and
sometimes talks/i know, i know it, i’ve felt it.
I KNOW IT as i,i, i
passively watched the blood moon;I’m
certain and I bet all my cuticles on this
that i know pretty pretty eyes when i see them
in a drunken fear fun fantasy falling falling
and i form your fluttering fleeting
shadow w w w wwwwwww .
//
yoi were(as) meant to go when the sun comes up