I lay down gently
And watch
Hair falls gently
Wisps on your
Lips –
Run my nose
Against your cheek
And my thumb,
On your chin.
I grin
And feel
Heavy hearted,
Beating, pounding
As I search for your neck;
And lay fingers,
Trail kisses
Emblazoned skin.
Deep within,
I hunger
For you.

Mere sight, o mortal,
Sinful, banal covetousness
Sin, as it may,
To feast upon your nakedness;
Drive this stake
And I may punish
My own treachery
Of touching,
Feeling you –
Your breath close to mine
As your scent
Send shivers
Down my spine.
Eternity shall not pass.
I will but gladly perish
For one touch of your being,
For a single stare
Though mockingly.
And it shall be as if
You were mine,
And I,
Yours.
For as my soul
Screams of want of you
And no other,
And my lips trail
As fate plays coy;
My hands –
My whole body –
Ache in deepest longing,
Wither,
I may never,
Lest your desires be true.
And I shall bless,
Union of wings,
A pair I created for you.
My own be broken,
Your glance,
Stolen.
Your laughter be most lovely.
You are most lovely.
Dare I beg,
“love me.”

sleep now, little bee
i may have to stay awake
for thee.

the coals of clouds come
crashing down
shooting stars do not recognize
innocence when they see one.

have we forgotten what it was like
to bury ourselves in
slumber deep?

i have forgotten how it is
to peacefully sleep

A second or two
My thumb on you
Soft,
Sweet
Yet painstakingly near.
Two steps back
One foot forward
Sweaty palms –
I remain calm.
I remain firm
But it burns.
… should it burn?
I grow thorns
In the night
When the scent
Of your lips float
And blind me.
Yes.
Blind me
With the wicked curve
Your arrogance
Is breathing.
Imprisoned,
I am enslaved,
Finally,
Truthfully,
Wholeheartedly –
As when the voice
Of your touch,
Alas,
Faintly whispers,
“come.”

This cup of joe
never lies.
Sip,
as it drowns
my mouth.
Wash me whole
but filled with holes
punctured previously;
Coffee flows
freely.
My second cup,
the third drop
tastes familiar
and stale.
Three-fourths sugar
but bitter,
made sour by spoon.
Dangling,
stirring -
I shall finish my cup
soon.
And what have I learned?
It takes a little bit
of German
and sweet-sounding French
to blend the Irish,
Mexicans;
when I stare,
I leave a welt.
I leave a welt.
I do it so well.
I leave a mark;
it creeps up your neck.
It strangles
then spits venom
on your face.
It will wipe,
it shall lick the scars
left by Grace.
Your saving grace -
amazing grace -
coined by days, years
6 years,
perhaps,
5.
Count to 7,
down to 8, 9, 10 -
the 11th,
you die.
And my cup,
it overflows.
It overflowed,
caffeine-sweet.
The bitter had gone sour;
the sweet,
sweetened by spit.