little saporous pretty prisms
dragged through ashen bones
to place your cloying melt
on my shivering paper skin:
your sticky face,
tongue stripping strangling,
char-chipping my caramelized blisters
from the burning maraschino hum.
Bubbling up whiteness
like our eyes unfocused,
hands moving unaware
spread the chapping numbness
over our senses, succumbed.

i am the blood in the sink
you are **** on the bathmat
wash me off so we forget this
failed flailing at repose's feet.
("maybe we can make each other's
winter's feel all right.")
no, i cannot make you quake
in my mocha movement,
draped in careful quirk
pastel enraptures
fantasies of argyle.
drawing your fingers into motion
along fantastical bony parts,
effulgent with the newness
of thrush april wetness,
i have never felt so pasty dry.

do the bad days outweigh the good
when you speak into the corner of my collarbone?
                                                     ­                         "sometimes it hurts to be this damaged."
could i whisk you up in the Kwanzan cherry blooms
though your body still feels imbued with winter?
                                                                ­             "i've never met someone so afraid to be open."
must i crave the insatiable taste of salt,
gravelly crumbles of your encumbrance?
                                                                ­           "i love this moment, with you and me, right here."

                                                        ­                                     (in the morning, i am still syrupy stuck
                                                           ­                                  and the sequestering sun washes me off.
                                                            ­                                 clean from the ***** taste
                                                                ­                             that slipped off my sordid soliloquies
                                                     ­                                        into submissively diffident lobes.

                                                         ­                                     emotional adiposity
                                                       ­                                       i'd love to turn myself off
                                                             ­                                 whenever you're near)

your unforgiving body, supple
when rolling through my fingers:
the sands of you
are so cold when the night comes.
and in the blackness of your empty beach
i rub driftwood together
fruitlessly trying to extract
a single spark of fervor.
in the brisk silvers of the moon,
i wish your warmth would stay with me
for more than the time it takes
your body heat to leave the sheets.
i will forever pick these slivers from my palms,
stinging every time you crawl naked
to place your body on my blisters again.

your calloused fingers
building centuries of soul
splinters of the world

laugh into the night
wind carrying whiskey wisps
your authentic air

with you i am small
not a child but a songbird
cooing at your strength

the sun has wrapped you up
leather coat and golden blonds
clothed by nature's love

when you nurture me
beneath your confident touch
i feel i should run

i'm sorry for me
i don't deserve any of you
sweet primal lover

you leave me tasting so metallic
i'd always pictured such softer hands
when you smoothed me over
in daylight dreams.
but i am wedged in comfort's drawer,
corners dig into my hips
as I wheeze a stale warm release;
clouds that lift me in between
bated breaths and rumination
of time poorly spent.