Chain smoking;
     three in the morning. Then four. Then two.
Red wine haze;
     street lights echoing in the stars.
Cold cheeks;
     cold toes, warm lonely champagne.
Missing notches in your spine that isn't there,
     too scared to go back to bed.

Do not ask me to be patient.
Do not ask me to lay suspended
     in apathy until the world turns for me.
Until pages turn themselves.
Until my lungs turn cancerous before I'm done hurting them.
Do not ask me to be faithful.
Do not ask me to stare into your eyes
     in love and hold onto them forever.
Do not ask me to be pure.
Do not ask me to get drunk
     only on communion wine and bow to
a God that doesn't need the minister I'm *******.

I'm sorry.
You can't fall in love temporarily.
Even if it's just a fleeting moment
     across the street or between supermarket aisles.
Moments are forever, now.
What I say now will be true, always.
This feeling now will be true, always.
I'm sorry.

Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art...*
Perhaps not so much.
It would be better to burn, yes;
     to witness the trembling of a thousand suns,
to thumb each tremor of the human heart.
Surely it would be better to burn;
     but to fade, to die with bright sensation,
to linger in the memory of some ancient constellation.

Bare feet torn on muddy grass.
Blink slowly,
     feel the wind between your fingers.
Tilt your head,
     offer your throat to the sun.
Laugh,
     make music with the birds.
Run as fast as you can,
     stop to sing with the crickets.
Wander slowly, close your eyes,
     feel the sun play symphonies on your arms,
skin speckled with the light of every star.

Tepid summer nights and
     holes in the soles of your feet.
Holes in your wrists, no?
Soft fluttering of dusted eyelashes and
     the pale pink of morning sun as you turn your cheek.
Blushing like a schoolgirl, no?
***** fingertips on dirtied skin and
     toothy smiles, moth-eaten pillowcases, stale whispers.
*'Pour susurrer des mots doux', non?