Cold coffee.
Brown.
But brown isn’t really
Cold coffee.
Tepid and minor,
White sliver swirls
Slowly caressing the
Milky hazelnut brew
Concocted for the witch
Or woman
At table 8.

A quarter cup left
Of the 12oz pleasure portal
Or just a hit or fix
Hot beating heart shaker
Soothing, steaming, black
Cream laden
Laced with sweet hints
Of bitterness.
Cocoa. She can detect.
Cooled by the hands
Of the clock
Ticking
As I burn my finger
At 12:02pm.

An onward we go.
Pulsating in time
Moving with fervor
Motion intoxicating
Spinning gently
To the rhythm
Of a to-do list
Never ending.

Burnt mahogany softened
With pale pastel
Honey Cream.

Cold coffee
In a cheap white mug

in her flesh
a story sits
unfolding
scattered
by its own predicament.
how cautious can one be
too afraid to bare the weight of the ages
trickled down through time
she's been young a thousand lives
fear her not
as she begs renewal
fear her then
when her thoughts were fresh
incomprehensible
when she'd bend
or plead for the love
of another.
in the story wrought
from fact, truth, or fiction.
untangled and dismantled
she remembers it not
yet you see it written
in words by the dozen
or a fleeting glance
the story sits
in her flesh.
touch her only with love.

He asked me if I wrote much anymore
I couldn’t comprehend enough
to plaster any words onto a page.
Everything that comes out seems
laced in sadness
And he mentioned the darkness
of his current project.
Sometimes we need to spill out
in words or songs
and it doesn’t always
look how we are told it should.

Her raspberry lips pressed
tightly against mine
And I wondered if she’d stay
locked like this.
Uncertainty bellows out
from a cavern within.
I am but alone now
I was alone then.

the female body
resolves in fleshy form
stolen no longer
from man
a weakened heart
bares a heavy weight
she is stronger now
strong enough to let it go.

my bones play a beat
soft echos from the body speak
your skin plays a lie
soft secrets form an alibi.
i’m sinking now.
hold on to ground.
beneath it she moves
to softly make a sound.
-
hold on. she cries.
soft secrets and quiet lies.
taking my time
taking my time.

medicine woman
some old wise enchantment
brushing her way through thickets
thick with melancholy
as the sun tailors its way through brush
heavy, gleaming,
wet from the tears of
last night’s rain fall.