A quick whip of the wrist
and I've fallen.
I see gentle fingers
and porcupine hair.
Porcupines' aren't real.
They're fantastical creatures we made up.
You're mellow
your voice is hollow as your breath can be
well-labored and painful looking.
Is see beyond your bedroom eyes
and your needs
that say you to be the big spoon
in the little spoon bunch.
The last one put down,
the first one picked up.
Turned over of lust
and anxiety.
You're mellow
your voice is hollow as your face can be.
Life-like giraffe linen curtains
beckon me to
rest in your arms.
The length of your body from ceiling to floor
is equally as fantastical as
a made up creature.
The moon cries in equal fear that
it will not see me to be with you
for we are too far
and too late.
Like an enraged teenage girl
it turns itself over for a new day.
Listen;
there is a hell of a good universe next door.
Let's
go.