Ask one question.
Just one.
So that I  may let this torrent of falling ice melting from distance shores flood its way over the crumbling stone of my crooked confidence and into the only heart I care to see.
Please see.
See one, let just one conjure of those million particles of light strip away from your natural wonder to peer off at the trembling pup who does not know its soothing warmth and playful glow.
Hear one word.
Just one.
From a voice caught in the net and bramble of the infinite pauses, where letters are nothing but dirt on remnants of high-towering mountains that seem to never recapture the glory of its snow-laden peak.
Kiss once. Just once.
So that in the spiraling downfall of Time where the lines become thick and grooved and taught so hand becomes haze, flesh becomes faint, in that torrent of senseless aching demise where our captures of existence shatter to ash caught by flame and wind, within that...
A blossom. Bloom.
Just one.
For my soul cannot be without the nurture of you.

You are no king. You are no glorious mountain range with sunlight melting each peak in a thousand shards of shattered stars over the valley below. You are no master. You are no groveling fool at the feet of Memory, nor blubbering mouse curled into the depths of shadow as a claw reaches toward your tail. You are no ancient lover, who pulls at each hair as if pain is a gateway to the soul of another who no longer desires your flesh. You are no forgotten dreamer, shackled to a promise or engaged to mistaken truth. You are no forgotten loner, for even the wind and shadow and rain and fog and dawn seem to caress as you step into the day. You are no hidden sorcerer, for your trickery is always there to unfold even before a child's naïve eyes.
I have you not on a chain but linked through a whispered promise. That brittle enrapture.
You are no master, no king, no sorcerer of light nor darkness. Yet I succumb to it all with body unfurled and mind heart soul for your consummation.
Not a king, no. But a kingdom you create in me.

There is a place in my heart. I know it.
I wish it was not in darkness. Distracted. Hazy. Lost in the fog of a morning road in Paris where my steps are labored, cramping pain up legs into the emptiest stomach. Thought of what has been done, said, lost in shadow. Gain every light and torn by innocence.
Why? To be more than the confines of here. That is always how it is and how it will be. The desire to be on every street alone yet embraced. Push and pull as I please.

As I please.
Despite the shreds of what remains.

A breath is a breath. A moan is a moan. Touch, repeat, warmth, shiver down the spine. Hunger, loneliness, emptiness, all so light it becomes dizzying chaos. That is my reality.
I search for truth in the clouds when it is all true vapor seeping between fingers. There is no truth here. There is no enlightenment to be gained, just knowledge of feeling in mud.

Seeping into sand, I move faster.

Why does she not scream? Why does she not grab the rope awaiting her, his outstretched hand? The sand fills her every pore. Nothing is like the sensation of the earth's pressure on such brittle skin. The fight, the challenge, the aspiration to be more than a consecutive motion of day to day nonsense that arrives at nothing more than one smiling face.
Yet.
Of course there is more.

But in that second, sinking sinking collapse of time, **** it all if she does not feel free. Saved.

It can only pass. This will not be. Sorrow will come as essence, it will be stripped from her again. Reminded of every past venture into this safe hollow. But it will finish.
God, will she? Or is there a sunrise she will awaken to?
She will renew her light, I promise you. A stumble, rocks buried in her flesh. The most silent burden, the hidden scar. I promise you. She will return to whatever truth first made your eyes light for hers. Promise. Let her promise love and keep it.
The child within her dreams of nothing more.

Even with
the slap of your hand
and the slice of your voice,
the shove of your arms,
the apathy of your face;
Even with the injustice of your heart
and the fragile walls upholding your dignity,
I still curl up
against the hardness of your chest
and feel anguish turn to longing.

For in darkness,
you still whisper to me
the sweetness I crave.

Want to give me tap shoes so I can try to shuffle
alongside you in your infinite show number?
Or maybe a cigarette, so I can spray on the ground
the ashes of my self because you forgot to tell me
you can't just hover by birthday candles
to make a wish come true.