in the twain o' nite and morn
stirs the bright crepitus
o' your illuminate
joints and
the arcuate
motes of sleeping
curves enter my body
the smallest and loveliest
fingers painting silence
shivering 'neath the
loaded quiver o'
your mouth's
prime jewel,
those lashes
startling the
organized clot
of stifled air in
the certain pocket
of my uglywithoutyou
room, and the beauty drunk
and darkness fleeced marble
of your kisslonging head peaks
out suddenly crawling the lonely
chasm between our lips and crushes
absolute sexluscious ribbons pink set
onto my own vein penultimate lips and,
                                                            ­       '
                                                               ­       '
                                                        ­           '
                                                               ­        '
                                                               ­    '
                                                               ­        '
                                                               ­ ,