My hands hunger,
Tired of holding themselves.
Of aching emptiness,
that permeates the metacarpals, the cuticles, and
especially the palms, where lines lie in wait
for another artist to trace them.

simple complex lover.
hard softy. tough sweetheart.

the space between never and again.

luxuriously placed bruises.
you’ve gotten a lot brattier since the last time
.honestly.

i have an ongoing
love affair
with words
that roll around your
mouth

luscious, langourous
lilliputitian letters

sensual syllables
slick- sliding off
the tongue

ecstatic explosions,
erupting, erogenously
exciting, eager exclaimations,
of enraptured exualtations

organic, original orientations
of teeth and tongue
producing oodles,
of apogeic anomolies

my affair
accomplishes much
for little

it is you see
just a not so secret love
of letter, line, jot and tittle.

a casting eye upon a word
and i am set rushing
down a path
reserved for those
with terms, descriptive,
and names.
that in themselves,
decry
wordlove.

lexicographers and bibliophiles
phoneologists, linguists, polygots,
jonguluers, wordsmiths scribes
poets.

all possess this
heartstringed
tangled knot,
spiderwebbed
feeling,
for words.
which, we then,
endevour to spin,
into inkstained beauty,
to ensare
ourselves ...and others.

Sometimes it is 4am and I'm awake
relearning to breathe, calming my heart
because for once you saw me and smiled
and the reality, well it tears me apart

Sometimes it is 2pm and I'm anxious
heart pounding and hands shaking
because I know in twenty minutes
I have to seem perfect for the taking

Sometimes, it is 6pm and I'm thinking
whether I'm annoying or just weird
I just.. kinda hope sometimes for once
It wasn't just as I feared.