You are
delicious
And I am
greedy.
You are
generous
And I am
needy.
You are
experienced
And I am
learning.
You are
flammable
And I am
burning.

Honey is the blood of the sweet and the rotten
With sugar-scabs on the back of their hands.

Their hands, stained to the wrists with pulp,
Waving to us from a roadside stand.
The people that live on this small mountain
Eat fallen fruit and peel off the flies.

His hands stick to the wheel as he drives,
Upriver, where the air is wet and heavy.
We swallow our words, thin like skim milk
And I smell the thunderstorm fresh on his clothes.

It covers the stench of his sweet rotting bones

"I need to be nowhere," He said.

I'm listening to a man that prays not to talk about religion,
I hope he likes my choices, because I want to feel his smile.
He knows everything about me, we've seen each other naked.
He often asks me what I'm thinking, and I tell him all my secrets,
because we're good with translation, and reading each others minds.

I'm meeting you in the middle of nowhere.

I can finally function, because I feel wonderful,
and even though my picture perfect moment goes unseen,
I feel fine because I carefully scream. Except I'm afraid to cry,
because I keep finding myself in the same place,
but I like to be in this town with you, we can get lost in each other,
and slowly wait for everything else to end.

"I often meet you there," She replied.

She never spoke
but sang to me
and blew into her hands.

Whatever she hid there
I never knew.
Cupped in the hollow
like a small flame kept alive.
Bent over it
to see heerself
mirrored in the dark.
It glowed like embers
through her fingers,
but I never knew  what it was.

A bird, I wondered,
or a winged bug,
and whether its shadowy light
meant it had flown away.

Until one day,
opening her fist, she showed me
a  burned-out cinder,
a tiny corpse of self.

Quietness reigns
this golden morning,
ensconced in my glass tower.

All around on the ground
below these eyes,
the world crawls.

Like beetles,
almost,
in my power.

This moment in time
sonorous in its silence
seemingly tranquil.

I await the oncoming storm,
serene, etiolate
denuded of fear.