I am caught, in your eye,
and I drown, in your tectonic wave.
You rattle, intimately,
for me, and shake...

You shift,
minutely,
soundlessly,

collapsing, into sprawling patterns,
into formulaic strains, of madness.
Then you madden, me, as you cascade,
into beautiful, and brilliant shades:

Your Rorschach mosaics,
in prismatic hues.
Each gemlike, facet, of YOU, that is you...

Burning out my gaze,
with your radiance,
as you irradiate...

I'd give anything...to label each color,
that infuses, your face...

Scattering trickles of light,
and roseate shapes...

as if your soul,
were a treasure trove,
of the most precious jewels.

Your vibrant emeralds...
your smoky citrines...
your sapphire blues...
your ruby reds,
and your royal amethysts, too

You twist, in my hands...
and, under the light,
I turn, and return, too,
if only to seek,
a fleeting glimpse...of you.

I don't think, I really want this...

But surely, I
still have the eyes, to perceive
that she's the kind of,
fever dream
that makes grown men, and women,
lament, and weep

for the way, her jeans
gather round, her knees, and thighs--
for the way, her eyes...
pay homage, to the ancient skies...

would you take...a ride?
And, hey...would I...?
I don't think I might...

but she asserts her swerve,
with a certain sway,
and her curves,
would serve,
as hors d'oeuvres,
for days.
Her fruity lips...
with a sparkle glaze

they trickle...dark...as marmalade.
But if harvested, late...
what's their carnal taste?

...Is she the mark, on the grave,
by which, I think...I know myself?

No...I don't think I really want this...

not a shiver, runs through me.
But, sue me...for looking,
when she's so ******* juicy...
does it consume me?
Does it titillate me?
...I don't feel me, hyperventilating?

What if she turned, to face me?
To lay me, lace me
between her thighs...
internalized; eternal lies,
to sate me,
with her flavor, to bait me
acerbic, and savory...
Her skin, burning, like a lamp wire,

and her fingertips, debasing me.
What if I, was her vampire,
and she,
the one slaying me?
A slaking queen...
aching to break, her thirst...
so, what if I staked her, first...?
Would she mortify,
like ash?
Or would she forge, a lighted path,
and make me wish,
she had, forced...my hand?

No...I don't think I really want this...

not a shiver, runs through me.
But, sue me...for looking,
when she's so ******* juicy.

I would give you, almost anything,

for the borders, to close.
For our separate galaxies,
to inch, and crawl, ever closer,

winding and unwinding
around each other,
like the red thread of fate,
rocking gently, on twin spools.

I would give up, almost everything,

for my lifeline, to unravel,

if only...

to retangle, around yours,
in a closed,
but infinite loop.

I would give you my all,
my everything

For the distance,
between us...
to vanish.
For the spaces around us,
to suture themselves, together,
and heal,
like gaping wounds.

For the sublime favor,
of feeling you shine down, on me,
in a way no other, could do.

To see all your love,
reflected, in your mirrored irises,
and know that no one,
stands before, or behind me.

And I'd sell my own soul,
without a second thought
just to hear you say

That I'm your one,
your only love,
and no other
could ever

do.

I was not trained for this—
no welcome packet, no handbook for gravity.
Just a name that clings like static
and a voice that trembles when spoken too clearly.

They asked me if I had room.
I said I had weather.
They asked me if I would disappear.
I said watch me smolder, and stay.

I have loved like a lighthouse
with no shoreline in sight,
signaling to anyone
who mistook reflection for return.

I’ve held their names
like breath under water,
carved pathways through others
just to find my own again.

But I do not sculpt.
I do not steal 'the good stuff'.
I inherit fire
and ask it if it remembers me.

If you see yourself in me,
look again—
I am not a mirror,
I am the window you opened
and forgot to close when the wind picked up.

Still, I arrive,
boots echoing in the hallway
of someone else’s myth,
offering only this:

I will not rewrite you.
I will not finish your sentences.
But I will stand here—
untranslated,
unsaved,
untouched by the need to be anything
other than true.