Straight teeth.    
Divine thought.    
Sharp words buried seeds.
Making new,
feeling dead.

They are translucent gray
and dance in the glimmers of light
when the moon is out.

They have four prongs and don't know
when to stop.

They are invisible sometimes,
and just sit inside my head.

They can sprout slowly, inch by
inch from my unknowing scalp.

Or they explode,
making holes.

Promises made
when jeans feel tight.
Overfilling and underemptying
until I wear out.

We are straight lines
powdery and sharp,
carved into perfection.
We sit next to each other
forever
without touching.

Quite funny how words
arranged in a careful way
can become a sword.

I'm the stubborn cigarette
you just can't put out.
You want to walk away,
and you might.
But you will feel guilty
leaving me here to burn.

You will never know the feeling
of the smooth valley between her hips.

Your fingers will not cross
those lands, peaks and hollows.

You won't stumble across buried treasure
or the chance to please a woman
so divine.