I remember,
Burying my face in your neck,
As your fingers traced paths down my sides,
And clutched me, in a way that was so wrong,
But oh so right,

I wanted so desperately to be wanted.
So I let you bite my neck,
And leave marks for the memory,
Because you knew I'd wanna remember.

And even after all the trouble it's caused,
I can't lie, I have to say,
More than anything,
I want that feeling again.

I want your teeth to leave impressions on my neck,
And your scent to linger on my clothes,
And the taste of your lips on mine
You are now a craving I won't give up.

The weather changes
More than a woman changes
Her beautiful mind.

My wife, a psychiatrist, sleeps
through my reading and writing in bed,
the half-whispered lines,
manuscripts piled between us,

but in the deep part of night
when her beeper sounds
she bolts awake to return the page
of a patient afraid he'll **** himself.

She sits in her robe in the kitchen,
listening to the anguished voice
on the phone. She becomes
the vessel that contains his fear,

someone he can trust to tell
things I would tell to a poem.

Listen,
I wanna embrace a blanket of your sensuality.
I wanna abandon all rationality and create our own boundaries.
I wanna become in tuned with the vibrations of each other's souls.
Want you to climb so steeply within me that you can't find the way out of me.

See I don't wanna make love, I wanna  create precious poetry.
While breathing the same rhythm.
You **** every stanza out of me.

Two pair of eyes undivided, two bodies *****, vigorous, exuding of familiarity.
Make a story out of me.

Feed it descriptions of true beauty.
Not shrewdly,  but do it smoothly.
Let's co write a poem based on our union.
We can be a masterpiece.

Ink stains left in my bed sheets.
I'll lend you my body to use as a diary.
Release all frustrations as you lay your fervor out on me.
Send a chill of suspense intensely towards the inside of my thighs,
just where the margins would be.

Our minds are deadly.
Their correlation, deadlier.
We're writing words so compelling, while releasing showers from hearts too heavy.
Our poetry is nothing to compare to the regular.

Every inch of my body manifesting your touch readily.
I recede as you synchronize my private visions of a flawless fantasy.
Basking in this radiance as you guide your pen to an astonishing ******.
Inducing my body to impasse in ecstasy.

Leaving me dripping with your artfulness.
As if announcing all expectations surpassed.
Drowning me in words that mirror ardor.
Each line so passionate,
I have no such memory of felicity that neither compares nor contrasts.

Every part of my skin left sensitive, tender, and fragile.
My body fluently floating, light as a feather.
Skin now designed and decorated with such puissant letters.
And God forbid we begin to forget the significance of our coalescence.
You can lay me down,
As you read it back to me.
This way, we can reminisce on the angelic medley.

Listen,
I don't just wanna make love,
I want our bodies to intertwine and invoke aesthetic  poetry.

he was staring at his coffee
i could feel it getting cold
he was simple in his sadness
and he didn’t say a word

can I see your scars
he said to me
touching my shirt

my cheeks turned pink
I was dizzy
and embarrassed

his pale lips touched them gently
he smiled

at any moment the reality that I have spent my life creating
will collapse into a thousand pieces, blanketing the ground
in fragments (of desires
that have lulled me to sleep at night with the hum of half-formed expectations)
only to be replaced with an undefinable hybrid emotion;

equal parts loss and anticipation.

I find my words inappropriately, overwhelmingly, unequivocally
inadequate
to describe something that could mean
everything &(or) nothing at all.

This is the way that you make me feel.

"We hardly speak any more."
I know it's true,
I hardly speak at all.

We used to often talk,
staying up late, letting
our words play their games.

She asked if I'd rather
live alone on an island --
in complete solitude --
or be trapped in an apartment,
only able to watch people walk by.

I said I'd rather watch the people walk by;
at least then  I could pretend that happy
people still existed.

Today it feels like I'm in that apartment,
watching people walk around me.
They don't seem happy.

I smile at them;
they never smile back.
I wonder if something's wrong with me.

I stopped talking when I started writing.
I already spelled everything out on paper,
and the words never crawl back into my mind.
If those words ever get back home,
I'll tell 'em all how I feel:

One:

You can't help anyone with words,
who needs something done.
A sentence about your love
means nothing when you're
twenty-seven hundred miles away.

Two:

Strangers are more alluring than
people you know closely;
that, my dear, is why I'm terrified
of getting any closer to you.
From a distance, you're so beautiful.

Three:

Sure, we spent a few weeks cuddled up
in your room; but your lifestyle is the reason
that I fled from Southern California.
I don't want things.

Four:

He's just going to end up killing you.
One instance of abuse should be enough
to send you packing. You crawled back for more.
I understand -- too well -- the lies that get you trapped.
I keep waiting for that phone call.

Five:

A woman should never be a reason
to abandon your old family;
although I see how her children
are your chance for redemption.

Six:

I wish we talked more often;
more than once every few months.
You're intelligent and articulate,
and the hour or two we spend
(not often enough)
fills me with hope for the world.