If I speak with human eloquence and angelic ecstasy but don’t love, I’m nothing but the creaking of a rusty gate.

There are stories in your eyes.

I never told you how
sometimes I fell asleep
with the thought that you
were perhaps the moon-

always disappearing
with the dawn.

my form is formless
         -ness
he said i was a strange creature
to be remembered
now and again,
         always

i wonder how i looked
         dancing
with too many chemicals inside of me
my eyes
         wide
                and wandering

i couldn't let go of his hand for days

and in the rarest moments i let myself
slide
         back in time,
i am almost convinced
         that i never did.

some barely rosebud
tenderly just
open
slenderly

bobbling
aloft
skinny skinny skinny
stem and

a pink
sliver of
petals
bunch easily
at

the lips
of its,

(hands go around
and: Pluck            )

a sensual curve
to the facade

- infinite femininity -

arched above
rounded windows

- innuendos art of love -

deco of desire
climbing higher

- echoing fire -

...descending spiral stairway
home to shanty on the bay.

r ~ 10/9/14

my throat is twisted up
jumbled and knotted
like the roots of an old oak.
your words bleed through
my pores
and i can feel them
trickling down my skin
until i am
covered
in
crimson