Leaving the windows open
and the miles the same
as black waters curl
between our southern toes.
The long way to you
is engorged with short speech
and our blathering tongues
well versed in ******
memes.

We are not without design.
but we assume the worst, regardless...
farm our beetles to the sticking place
and etch firebrands in orchids
lording over under-frost
and deplorable
sins.

we grieve as we ****** shame
from the wick of burning candles...
at both Ends.
our every scandal, more luscious
than desolation would have
Us both.
we choke on the plumes
of our disconnect
and close our
Throats.

And leave again
Love's Ghost.