God, I'm naive, but I don't care.
At the moment I am young and beautiful
And I ache to experience the world twice over

Poetry is dead
when you are not here
to write it in my heart
when your voice is too far away
to read it.

Poetry is dead
when your allure is feeding
strangers' souls on the streets
while I am here alone,
my soul starving.

Poetry is dead in all my being
I feel its ghost leaving my brains
I feel the emptiness inside
and I fear the days
when it will come haunt me
and I won't find a way
to write it.

Sleeping at night it's impossible
cause I hear a question screaming in my chest

When poetry is dead
is there anything out there
left
*alive?

no matter how
stable
sturdy
stunning
a bridge may be

fires will always come
and burn
burn
burn
them to the ground

all that we've worked for
now in ashes, black soot
covering my fingers
can we rebuild it together?

or will we be trapped on either side
never meeting in the middle
caught at arms length
further than we ever were before

How could i not be,
Be utterly intoxicated by you?
I have always
Lacked self-control
And i have never cared
To sip you *slowly

& I believed in God
as I covered your lips with mine

the thick cloak of incense smothering us, weak kneed from prayer,

sinking into stone,
the redness of our lips

the heavy gloss

washing my teeth with wine
enamel stained and

yellowing

two women, bending into the folds of each other's skin

& maybe we are God, two Eves and temptation, consumed

into the shape

of us