Certain rhythms will provoke ghosts
in old attics reeking with romance.
That eternal prayer
found in complete silence,
begs sinners to break purity.

Mortal breathes begin to dance between lips,
creating poetry in sacred space.
The momentary awareness of another,
who craves the absorption of your soul.

**** me into your lungs darling.
I'll translate centuries of painful wisdom
stirring in the temple of my bones.

These truths begin a home
in our late night dialogues
circling around dangerous pasts,
all those golden, fatal blades.

As we make our way back to the red light of sleep,
the attic leans in to touch our skulls.
We respond with agony and laughter.

I slide into sleep,
forgetting all I need to find in your mind.
Accepting the fingerprints
as you press my identity upon your tongue.
The restless goddess within my nature
swallows the mortality
in tonight's poetry.

But this never lasts.
Love is a distraction,
an intoxication meant to entertain that ego who loves deficiency,
a selfish voice who finds herself every morning in front of a decaying mirror
and blames the lack of other.

Learn to leave the fear behind.
You alone are whole.
There is poetry sewn into your veins.
Underneath that sacred silence
there is an original symphony
waiting to find the medium of your complex truth.