expression
is
not
limited
to
a
flap
of
a
wing
or
a
vibration
of
a
vocal
cord

it's everlasting. instantaneous

so large that it's beyond our senses
and so small that understanding is effortless
if we allow

conceive a concept and project it---

only
the
pretentious
present
themselves
as
paintings
of
the
past

place your posture in the present. take it **** it reap it.

you & i get  along because we can eat tirimisu and sip coffee sans words



convinced:

talking is wildly subpar. touch is greater than a vibration of a vocal cord.

but if you must;

scream it to the sea.

beautiful„,

beyond the mind’s flexibility.

even when your razor blade honesty cuts my fingers red and in the softest shade i mention

that you would rather be vague in your emotions than outright.because once,

love was a nap in the sun

until you woke up shivering, with grass imprints on your cheek



i am the girl that came after that.

and with my head turned just enough so that maybe you’ll touch my

face„,

press against the cold bedroom wall and wish to be absorbed



love me from your thymus to your toes

or not at all.

you know that butterfly we saw,

pinned

to the case? the one so vibrantly blue that

even your mother who takes everything literally and got eyeliner tattoos to prove a point

stopped.


it made the others look dusty and pressed,

mere textbook diagrams.


that blue,

reminds me of the way your beauty works

the type that doesn’t make a heart race so much as

purr.


when you walked through my mislabeled door, that night when the moon was curvy as a woman’s hips

i realized that when people say love at first sight

what they really mean is love at first loss of sight


because i couldn’t tell you what color your shirt was or whether i was wearing mascara or not

you leaked for me,

droplets of your oceanic soul.


we touched in the ephemeral before we hugged on the ***** kitchen floor.



electric amor,

make me the flower you flutter through fields to drink from

and i promise you’ll never be empty.

breezy
lustful
whole,

the soft of your earlobe against my cheek.

how can the future exist when

now
your wild sage smell is laced over me like a winter chill and your lips,

your lips are so

                                               dangerously



near.

but i might be confusing love for

that brief moment when i wake up before everyone and feel the hum of sleep and the afternoon light hits his cheekbones in such a poetic way that it’s almost silly seeing as how

we crashed on a crusty futon after a night of inebriation, smoke breaks and psychedelic rock.

the thing is:

you put your warm mouth to my ear, thoughtlessly, and said

T’amo.

i’m taking that and pinning in to my

shirt.

one man’s trash might just be a woman’s

treasure.

my teacher tells me

the sage is not attached.          so i cut off all my hair and quit my job and buy records despite my lacking bank account.

i don't know **** about wisdom but i know how to make myself

weightlessly
indulgently

                         happy.