born from a splitting
ache in the back-left of my head
like a drill bit whirring in an empty paint can.

i'd give you pearls for hands my love,
ever-winter washing over our foaming cerulean eyescapes.  

inside your drums I hear
a pulse that cries for
hips and thorns entangled
under your
navel.  

one more summer breath from lung to lung
exchanged
under moonlight for the promise of elevation.  
you are not
who you say you are
my dear - you are a
future memory
stalking sweetly today under the guise
of novel pleasure , but time will
reveal your skin to me
under the electric lavender
of my
eyelids.

you are wood grain
and strata -
born too, it seems, from a splitting.