Slide into bed -
ripped t-shirt and cute little thong covering my ***,
bare-legged.
He says
You should shave.

Boy, as if my body was made for you,
carved from your desire and not by puberty.
Boy, I bleed
but I don't bleed for you.

I walk into an empty room
and your presence leaks from every pore,
unwinds itself from the fibers of the bleach spotted carpet,
leaps up from the wicker trash can you left behind,
screams at me in the pump-swish of the ceiling fan.
This room - what's left of us now.
Your truck is still in the driveway but
it already feels like you are gone.
This room is us now
and I want to beat the walls for its emptiness.
I didn't mean to fall in love
but now the sun only rises and sets for you.

I lie on the floor
atop our skin cells and fallen strands of hair
that are surely trapped beneath me,
only to disintigrate into my purest essential particles,
protected from the ecstatic pain of love.

On the red eye,
eyes red,
heavy with sleep that doesn't come.
Consciousness fades out, fades in,
bobs up and down
though I crave submersion,
surrender,
a letting go in a sense.

My wish is simple.

That,
if only sleep will find me,
cradle me gently in its sweet ether,
as my jaw slackens and my head rolls onto my shoulder,
I will only dream of you.

Sometimes, despite your reservations
and in contrast to your sanity,
when a man you've admired
squeezes your thigh as he helps you onto a horse,
and makes eye contact with you
as he strums the guitar,
and tells you he's been waiting for this since he was nineteen,
you have to **** him.

I miss your voice in my ears.
I miss your eyes on my eyes.
I miss your breath on my neck.

I feel in haiku
folded neatly in my mind
The rest is too much

Imperfect, strong hands
Your guitar speaks for itself
Your voice carries me

Dismount from horses
Another sip of whiskey
A smile paints your eyes