The patterns of Glimmering light Refracted in the bubble Droplets dangling Off a glass pane, A rough skirmish Of splintering wood Stained by age and The sea Washing in still waves below, Neither of which reflect The brilliancy of White washed sheets Baked in a vanilla scent And a tidal quiver Of fingers shaking At the anticipation That they may Caress skin half silk With patches of sand, Warm in the sun That looms behind Gray fog over a pale Blue, seeping from The cracks that Scatter about a space So infinitely random,
Lips bruised from A night needing no moon To shine away Dusk creeping up From pine-needled soil, Kissing with bare Chests and thinking With flickering eyes That so seemingly Match that of a candle's Shadowy counterpart In the enveloping Elegance of a deary Dance to the world Soaking wet, While darling, We lay amongst Boxes of sheets In our chests And days without So much as the rest Of the beating amp Inside our ribs, Shaking our hair Bedazzled with milky Morning twilight Dispersed through an Array of sleeping giants, Gently weeping away The toxicity of daily hustle, Cotton legs and Arms made of satin rope, Wearing the indifferences In the fibers of pasts Evaporated and sprouting next spring, Flower crowns and fireplaces, Murky waters and the shiver
As you trace your fingernail Across the peak of my collarbone.