No matter what I say
or do
There is a wholesome glow
in his eyes,
though they are starved
from vaulted schemes
and there’s a dimple
on the side of his mouth
caving in
like a wooly bruin
There is a dire red
in his hair
he thinks a plunder to the gold
and the ground shivers madly
when he walks
or speaks
or sings
His scent lingers
relentlessly
feasting off
my etiolated heart
until its ridges
die between his teeth
and I look unhinged
inhaling his knitted garments
like limpid air
I love him
no matter what I say
or do
and I’m afraid
because for the first time
the fire stokes itself at night
Jun 6, 2015
Jun 6, 2015 at 1:19 AM UTC
No matter what I say
or do
There is a wholesome glow
in his eyes,
though they are starved
from vaulted schemes
and there’s a dimple
on the side of his mouth
caving in
like a wooly bruin
There is a dire red
in his hair
he thinks a plunder to the gold
and the ground shivers madly
when he walks
or speaks
or sings
His scent lingers
relentlessly
feasting off
my etiolated heart
until its ridges
die between his teeth
and I look unhinged
inhaling his knitted garments
like limpid air
I love him
no matter what I say
or do
and I’m afraid
because for the first time
the fire stokes itself at night
Request permission to use this poem