And so I will make love
and as we devour our skin
as you bury your mouth on my neck
and as my whisper engulfes your cheek
I will scatter verses of Shakespeare
destroy John Keats
curse William Blake
lament over Sylvia Plath
disarray Bukowski
set Hemingway afire
annihilate Gaiman
and when the morning comes
I will disappear
and all that's left
will be the creases on your sheet
and the stars on your blanket
and it will remind you that last night
we danced on the shards
and wreckage of poetry.

It will break your ******* little heart.