and you helplessly look at him, your eyes following every curve of his face;
the curls of his dark hair, wetly plastered on his forehead, his flush high on his cheeks, his grin and his warm, warm eyes, looking down on you as if you were the most precious thing he had ever seen and wouldn't dare look away as if every second he lived shouldn't be wasted not staring at you
and so, chest undeniably tightening under the force of his smile and the way his glasses are messily porched on his nose, you think to yourself, god, good god, this man. i love this man so much i could die.

pressed against the cold bricks
outside the church,
she smiles around your lips,
her breath harsh on your face,
her scent compelling you with want;
you ravish her mouth,
thinking that maybe if you went deep enough,
you could stay inside her forever.
the drizzle comes to a stop,
and you hear nothing but the pastor saying:
Refrain from sin,
and He will let you in His Kingdom!

the crisp burnt wind
cuts through your parched lungs as
filthy sweat runs down your back
you gasp and you moan and you scratch and you groan—
you relish the rough touches of her hands
on your neck
you breathe
you breathe
you breathe

it's always been like this, you think.
she whispers in the dead of the night,
like the devious, bold Lilith,
and you blindly follow.
without fail, like a fool,
you walk her footsteps,
feeling like you're running on air.
you know what's happening,
what she's doing--
yet you still do as she wishes.

outside your window,
the branches of the trees you see
look like skeletal hands waving at you,
laughing at your idiocy.

a sudden warmth
causes you to arch your back
like a lover in heat,
your tongue peeks out from your lips
and the breeze catches on the sweat on your brow,
cruelly teasing you.

drifting through the atmosphere,
she lets you come close
but stops as your muscles tighten.
her breath ghosts over your painfully tense chest—
you reach for her,
but she disappears
as if she was born from a fire extinguished,
silenced,
by the wind.

dawn breaks,
and the circle is still unbroken.

you both sprung from the greens,
and now you have been wrapped in the color of rust.

my mother always said
"don't fall in love with a poet"
they pretend to love you
but what they really love
is writing about loving you
you are mere words to them
feelings cheapened by a page,
dusty grey typewriters,
and many unfinished drafts
of lovers both old and new,
you are the question mark,
but not the answer,
they are searching for ?
person unidentified: mystery
the page wanderer,
each poem a missing
person poster to cover their
bedroom walls.
they cannot love something
that is in their head
poets are the loneliest of
all people, my mother said.
they write to immortalize
what has long passed.
to live within their words,
but not reality,
lost souls writing suicide notes
and proclaiming it art.