we do not write poetry
we write mirrors
which are held up
to curious faces
who read
looking for their
own reflections

The wind changes
direction
imprinting ripples on
the shell of the skin.

Entanglement assumes
Subduction
I sink under your
molten compression

Shadow edges and
Depths of quintessence
We merge into earth
With oneness

I cloud my perception
From the judgement of
The sun

Confluence of love
Is the of sound of two rivers
Thundering on

Meandering across mesas
Veins of the upper crust
Flow through our entangled palms

I didn’t discern
salt from snow
As I counted
Flecks of white

Strewn across
The basin and
range of
your collarbones

Never have I been able
to place my finger on where
my trouble sits
deep inside my flesh
lodged in like a weary traveler
finally able to rest,

I do not know the reasons
for why he entered into my life
holding great felicity
delicately as if it were
the only precious gem in the world,

I ponder the answers to why
I will never hear another tap against
my window pane
or hear him speak the syllables
of my name,

For he is gone and the one
to never return with
jouissance dwelling in
the palm of his tired hands.

Exhausted
somewhat cold
thoughts fall to your toes,

lips and every part
in between
my small hands fit into yours,

spaces
make me gray
slipping into melodies,

of piano keys
slow dancing
away,

I float delicately
as smoke takes me to
another place,

our sun shines
only when
the stars gleam,

as do your eyes when
you sing my mind
to sleep.