when you talk, you
hook little clusters of words
to my collar and call it the most
beautiful crochet.

communication, my dear
it doesn’t mean:

biting my tongue
until little drops of truth
drip from my lip and
onto my sweater.


(exposed to the world
- so unfashionably)

i'm a fool,
your shiny foil.
enhancing elegance
i'm practically-
pragmatic.
deserving girl,
get your dustpan ready
and sweep your dirt
off his stationary feet.

despite self-spite
dub myself a realist?
how dare i

shaking, jerking
back and fourth
as a squeaky rocking chair,
gasping for breath
the ****** of the
uninterrupted downfall.

sweetie, mornings have never felt more like headaches
pulsating under your olive skin;
with your open mouth
and we don’t even recognize your bones anymore.
your twisted wrist, press against that hallow chest-
the perfect incline to an obedient pose.
“shadows”, the camera man blames.
for stretching your skin over that pseudo-structure.
protruding collarbones hovering above that plain
white t-shirt.
standing in front of pretty floral wallpaper.

soft fingers, tingle
trace  the structure of your spine
scandal
commencing in linen
body heat

enhancing the strain
copper streaks
upon the masterpiece
with the fall-back of knowing
lust, it ceases

dispatch in triumph
accomplish your wits
words
non-spoken
yield to the beauty

whilst here,
you and i,
we melt into the sofa and
compare our bones
just for a while.

whilst here,
here we lay,
stealing for feeling and
assuring sincerely:
"you can stay"

isolated hibernation
i went digging through the deep freezer
to find affection
nothing but a handful of sores and frost
startled-
your hands melted the ice
your fire gave me life
the same that burned in the pit of my stomach

on an account of being mardy,
these sincere words will not
be exposed. nor, fall from my mouth
and land at your feet.

while mine storm through rivers
every settled pebble swirls about
like every thought, every question.

my error, left in a translucent
body of unclear directions.
your silence, left in a flaming pit
burning in my gut.

knowingly enough, everything
will fall to the bottom
and there it will rest.
every pebble, every ash.

lets write poems under the sky
about intimacy and anatomy
adorned in sheets and flesh

lets take photographs in the dark
exposures of pale faces on black
adorned in mittens and sweaters

lets break our fingers off the piano
crying melodies and harmony
adorned in disappointment and blood

i'm rediscovering body heat
in such a foreign way.

you shed that electric blanket.
each fine hair chasing it as it
hovers down my spine.

this body pulsates with cold sweat.
the intimate ocean.

i like your fingers
and how they fit
into the ripples of my ribcage. beneath waves

are fallen sailors.
who wished to drown in my flesh.

majority got me
when the light went out
pendulous
from their thin wrists-
displaying the unattainable

all it took
thin smiles and closed eyes
that held
elevating a detailed jaw

in perfect light
even dust
and dead cells
look beautiful

you’ll never get it

swift words,
shifting focus
mechanically.

digest and forget.

arise,
those weighty eyelids.
caressing lips and
read upon hips;
“void all fondness”.

yield to fall,
fall- for a poet.

feeling:
as an accent
hovering above
the vowels in
your stomach.
leaning towards
with soft feelings.
to push away?
harsh, at most.

an educated swain,
yet even the
stroke of skin
is foreign to you.

through these
well paced hands,
one could say i’ve been asleep.
motionless,
while measured events
click their way
through a weep.

checking back
to you often,
not once yield- you do mock.
continuous,
till time runs out
i’ll be clenching
my clock.

once thought,
which a light was a mask
gleaming upon my face.
now, it is nothing but a foil
enhancing subtly,
neither overpowering,
nor hiding.
shooting through my very
fingertips,
the beauty i make
the creation i desire.
light does not make dead cells
look beautiful-
they already are.