Ink flows from your fingers
free as falling rain
scripted words
your hands were born to say.

Gilded words drip out your mouth
like morning dew from leaves -
silver stories
your tongue was made to tell.

Lines of prose haunt your eyes -
a whisper on the wind,
things you dare not speak -
too much a part of you to know.

Beautiful, endless, flawless language
in everything you are
seeps out of you
as music from a harp.

Unending anguish hides in your words -
invisible in plain sight.
There for everyone to see,
but no one to acknowledge.

Your soul goes into the words
and you are left alone.

Laughter drips
from your eyes -
honey
to my malnourished soul
and light
of my hopes.

Fondness glows
right out of me
a promise
and an apology
to your too-long darkened
smile.

Those same eyes
light up
every time
at the electricity
of skin on skin.
That same glow
is slightly rosier
at every compliment
or simply
a moment.

Together we could
light the room
on fire.

I dreamt last night
that I had
to sew a blanket
with a giant seam
straight down the middle.

The fabric was patterned
with the galaxies
swirling and whirling and shooting by;
changing
every second.

 My friends
were all around
to help me
but lifeless -
automatons sewing
blanket after perfect blanket
all the while
watching me
with unseeing eyes.

And as I sewed
one by one
they disappeared
until I was alone
with my starry blanket
and it’s giant seam.

I looked at it
to admire my work,
but could not stand the silence
or the
emptiness.

When before my eyes
the seam was torn apart
but a shooting star
and into that hole in the galaxy
was where i walked
in search of something new.

I walked into the seam
of my giant blanket
and what I found;
what I found was magical
beautiful
the most breath-taking vision
of perfect
tragic
loveliness -
but I only know
because when I awoke
I was crying
and could not remember.

I wish you knew -
No.
Really, I don’t want you
to know.

If only I could tell -
But if
I’m being honest,
telling is half
the problem.

Do you ever wonder -
Don’t tell me.
The idea of what
you might think
terrifies me.

I like to imagine…
Not that.
Mostly just
that I knew how to make you
understand
or how
to understand myself.

The sense are suspect
which means
I cannot trust

(your hands tracing
my face
your lips brushing
my hair
the way you cling
to me)

you. There is
no way
to trust that you
are touching
me.
(I touch you as
you touch me
limbs entangled
unerringly innocent
the simplest form
of contact.)

My senses are
suspect
and so I may
reasonably doubt
everything
about you.

But my mind is true
and so
even though
I do not know
if you exist -
I know
(and can trust)
that I love you.

The way you hold me close
a star bursting
in the middle of the night -

nobody even knows it is there
until it is gone.
Until it destroys itself
in white hot
all consuming
flame

that no one even notices.
No one misses the tiny little star
that just sparkled a little bit -
no name
no face
no pattern
just it’s own little sparkle.

And now it is gone.
Now it has destroyed
the world around it
and continues to destroy
everything it touches -
a black hole
endlessly deep
and endlessly selfish.

You kiss my forehead.
You really shouldn’t -
but you’re already ****** in.

The taste of
licorice
and citron *****
haunts
every dream I have

and I can still smell
your perfume
on my shoulder.

A phantom
follows me -
your hand on my side
warm lips on my cheek
the string of cool metal
tied around my finger -

I don’t know
how to be
alone
without you.