Was so fragile-
She could be cut by callused palms.
Could be bruised-
With the stroke of her makeup brush.
Lays so sound-
She could wake up to the car door slamming in the garage.

She is so thin-
Light shines not just through her eyes-
But through her chest, hips, lips, and-
No warmth is transferred through her kiss.

She breaks like hardened mud.
You could sink into her like quicksand.
Her body, is built like a storm.

You can watch the blood in her veins-
Meet your fingers at the surface-
You can still see what you have drawn in the morning-
If you can even crawl out of bed to crack the blinds.

She likes thunderstorms.
She likes the smell of dirt.
Her eyes were gray-
And her tongue is stuck to the roof of her mouth.

She can dance in the sun-
clumsily-
And still be the most beautiful thing you have ever seen.

She could sing-
Off key-
But her emotion is what makes those notes gold.

She lays like stone.
She moves like running glass fast forwarded.
Her voice is thunder-
And her eyes are the winter.

She lays hands on you-
Only to heal.
She can mend you-
as easy as bending a wire coat hanger.

Her skeleton is like flint-
How it sparks against mine.
Her body is so fragile-
A word could hurt her.
and a stick or stone-
would certainly **** her.

Amidst the ultimate creative act
I am written
Into and onto and out of myself.
Cursive curving down my spine,
Skillful penstrokes, muse divine,
I am your masterpiece,
And you will be my opus.
My mouth is a new page,
My tongue your first chapter.
Lay me across your lap, open me,
And read, and write, with pure delight
What we create
Our love, our fate.

Bacchus begone,
I will never taste a wine
As potent or as sweet as those soft, pink, dew-kissed lips.
There is no grape as round or luscious
As her dimpled, yielding globes,
And when she dances, I die
a sweet death, and beg with every breath
To have her in my mouth again,
To sip her honeyed juices,
As she writhes upon my tongue.

i must stop falling in love
with boys who write poems.
they love a love that's lost
they love a love that is misery
they love the cuts on my arms.
they only want
a sad-eyed muse
and i cannot be sad
all the time

the tide of the days winds shifted
and the sunlight submerged returns
she lay in the pieces of sunshine
sculpture of dreads and beads
fine tuned erotica machine
with a heart of gold and trinkets of silver
she rests one arm across me
i savour its textures and its tastes on the mind
grains of sand along the line of her delicate form
i chase each one with fingertip
she smiles with wicked intents of her own
the sun melts us into eachother with sinful delights
i taste her on my very soul

later we sip wine in the shade with
cheese bread and meats
she rests her head on my shoulder
holding one of my hands in both of hers
playing with my fingers
and speaking to me with her caress
tells me of her love renewed with each heartbeat we share
i put on some music
a french girl who sings sweetly of her days as a child
and thinking of sweet paris
we sit and watch the beach struggle with the sea
we sit and watch the wandering people playing in the sun

her barely there bikini covered
with my van heusen suit shirt
we leave the beach to the gulls and turns
we leave the day to the evenings handiwork
strolling the garden path back to our house
carrying picnic basket and and things
i will make dinner and we will watch
the moonrise on the sea
sleep will give us tomorrow
to love one another again