The tree's knarled,
melted bark dripped down
the warm, burnt umber
in its spokes, dropping mellowed honey as we climbed the branches.
We spoke of sweet things
like the kind frosts creeping into the valleys of misted bloom, as the silver crescents rise higher by day,
entangled by wreathes of smoke.
We spoke of that very oak tree and how it's palsied trunk had witnesses so many fires.
We spoke of love and how (despite the cliche) we can not live without each other. We together will beat on through the charms of the cold thistle.
We dance round the dusky colonnades as the stars shatter around us and the moon's cancerous head rides higher.

That last time
we talked, my son,
the very last,
unknown to us,

never ventured
on profound subjects,
(as they do in films
or heroic novels)

we conversed
on the mundane:
how did you sleep?
What was the food like?

or trying to explain
the puffed up limbs
and pain( having
complained to the nurse

about your visual state)
when you did you pass
***** last? and some
such usual things.

You were tired
your eyes were closing,
and unknown
to either of us,

you were probably dying
for the first time, then,
without priest
or prayer or amen.

What was it like
that first time?
Revived, they
called us in,

while they set you up
to machines and monitors
and wires and tubes
and all such things.

You were comatosed,
eyes closed, lying there,
hands at your sides,
puffy and discoloured.

Did you hear us talk?
Did you know
we were there?
We held your hands

at the end, my son,
wanted you to stay,
wanted you
to be with us,

but death took you quickly,
far and away.

Am I just salt for you to rub into your wounds?
You flake me off like dandruff bits on your blazer collar,
Sadism is an art when you use me for it
We are whips, ripping into each others flesh
Taking bites and swallowing
Blood down cheeks
Vampire treats
We are invincible to all but each other
I want you to run your fingernails down my back, swirly skin under nails, red like fine felt-tip streaks
Paint me like one of your damaged girls
This is revolting, but this is home
Bruises are kisses as far as we're concerned
Lovebites
Love bites
Obsession is a small word for the hurt we do to each other
I love you
slap
I love you
Smack
I love you
Crunch
Bones on bones at the bottom of the stairs
We finished each other
We're done

it's easy to stab you in the back
when you turn around

i am a terrible poet.
the words i tied together in attempt
to annunciate 
the way your kisses felt
along the soft of my 
cheeks were
mediocre and just barely enough.

just barely.

there weren't enough ways that i could describe
the mouthful 
of stars that spilled at the seams of my

lips as you gently traced them with warm finger tips.

mm, your finger tips.

your finger tips felt like a personal extension from god himself as

they dusted the empty jars i left untouched

in the forgotten spaces of me.

you held them tightly and filled them to the top

with a breathful of morning secrets

and hidden places to meet.

i found you.

i found you and allowed the words to slip

through my small hands

as you kissed my palms gently and sweetly

and folded them into your own to keep for just a little bit.
(
i could stay here)
i could lay underneath your tired smiles

and messy hair

until stars realigned themselves and directed

me to you all over again.
(
i could stay here)

i could tangle in-between your pale sheets
and make up all the words that

effortlessly translate the way i melted and simmered

at the sheer thought of waking up and knowing you again.

i could illustrate all of the galaxies you whispered

onto the trail of my back with

colors and warmth i never knew

and turn them into poorly strung together,

black and white strings of thought.

you were my favorite secret

and the cause of all of my writer’s block.

(i could stay here)


i’ve lived in florida my entire life

and have spent more days than i can count

under the sun and in the wake of rays that always burned,

but i’ve never felt more warmth than lying underneath

your expired thoughts and eclipsing eyes

as the moon seeped through your broken window blinds.

i forgot what it was like to breathe

until you took my face
sweetly and sincerely
and kissed me.
the paragraphs and ellipses that perforated my parenthetical
sighs of relief
stained the corners of my mouth
and lingered
long enough for me to remember
the after taste of your recycled sunshine
as you left me.

i am a terrible poet,
but a better kept secret it seems.