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My name, his pupil screamed across the room.
The coarse pages of a New York novel stitched into the binding of my grip.
I am a waning willow under grey skies. The unnerving stillness of chest shatters amongst prose-dripped conversations. Am I ready to? We race to a cab.

We arrive, and in a nearsighted exhaust collapse into plastic-skinned chairs. A hacking congestion echoes between the walls. He stands and as he speaks, I feel his words wrap over my shoulder and then around my waist. Our embrace is an Orchid. As he exits I long for our next season.

We are unabridged lovers seeking vengeance against the moments which separate us. I escape to the tutelage of Jacques Peuchet. I learn the weight of a love born sword, and yearn for the ink to write us away from this moment.

I step out to pavement with Summer's gentle breath igniting the hairs of my neck. I follow Orchid ink veins to a break in the sidewalk. Coddled in the concrete, a pen. I am reminded of the discarded decorations of the blinded adorning our space. I see our future, in beautiful color: The vibrant friction which pours ink to page - dreams stained into their threads.

I return to you my forever, so we can watch our love spill across an enternity of pages longing for a pen.
For my cousin and his fiancé
Heartsongs wave in the frequency of light.
They glide gently through a wavering cavity.
Their voices are filled with the longing of
of a light which sprays its glow amongst the dust surrounding your face.

You sigh, empty of breath, as your hands lay motionless against the screen. A dam of words cramps knuckles and seizes the moment. Those words are stuck there, roaring around your joints - an elliptical trajectory in perpetual void.
When you've lost.
A branch extending and bending in the wind,
Would gift it's leaves to an unshaken night.
A chilling flow to unshackle - would sway
Like a snake's tongue - their brittle brown from
Crisp wood finger. And the growing heat from an early sun would pull and stretch and carry them
Back through the roots and the bark, around the knots to burst through the edges and paste the night
A deepening green. Settling, a blossomed fog would
Seep beneath a dirt thick plow to spin and sew life-threads. Unbridled twining would boil through the surface and extend its arms to the sun.

A car alarm would ring in the street.
There is always interruption in appreciation
I felt the hair on your cheek like brail standing and screaming, as your breath whispered into my ear.
Down the canal like a Venetian rower it flowed until it rested rhythmically on the pulse of my heart.
Passion fills the moments between the repositioning of our pupils, and in staring
I paint a moon in the dark spot of your eyes.
That moon, poised against the friction of blinks, glows brightly causing vibrations like wind blown grass through face.
Your neck extends and your head shift-tilts, a perpetually still teetotum. My lips grip upon an extension, and we are pulled away.
Pulled, and pushed we collide and the atoms of our souls explode, melding and twisting and engulfing the void separating painted moons and brail.
The water bled color in its mimic of the city.
The shore, cold-green-in-black, tickled
waves into a song of retreat.
Smells of electricity pop-flashing in my fingers
running through your hair.

The silence, sharp, poignant and pointed
Lacking punctuality as the second hand of my watch explodes through the stars. You lean forward and back, pulling away and crashing back - a wave upon my shore.

Our hands crawl together to melt in the friction of our hearts, and they pour into the sand, building our delta to the sea.

There's a taste of wine, the breeze flushing my skin, and the small vibration of my voice in your head.

"I love you," I said, "In the tumultuous silence, under an eccentric moonlight - I love you - in the star bursting grip of the sea, and in the wake of your embrace."

A choir of crickets fades, and there is only you, and me, and the sea.
Of a vacation not yet taken
It's natural to be afraid,
To run into the hollow fields of fear.
The empty light, cold comforting, distills emotion like the funnel of an hourglass. Hibernate between the grains, and let their coarseness strip you of sensibility. Retreat. Run.

Or wait. Breathe, and speak. Pant, and sweat, grip hold, firmly, a conviction. Stay, don't run. Flood, bleed feeling.

Stare down an army of electric synapse and feel it shock the flesh in your cheeks. Grip your toes, and tense your weight.

It's natural to be afraid, but there is no retreat in love.
In your eye a shutter-spark that catches
my gaze like a passing street lamp
driving in the rain - it’s refraction
drifting in and out until it’s a flash-bulb
burned in my eye. A flash-bulb, lightning,
sewing the skies and growing beauty in depths
and molding itself to veins. Veins that burn
into the friction of my
sporactic chest - a catalyst.

A catalyst that ignites my gaze
and inflames my ribs,
it beckons your breath -
warm against my ear.
A breathing,
a comfort,
like the softness of the light in winter;
where the clouds draw like curtains
and you hold onto me.

A moment of hesitation in breath,
And I continue to falter.
You scare words from my ribs
And I fear you. You to make me a convict
of my indecision.

Still – barred - paused in frequency.
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