He’s the space man, and he’s out of this world
Planets **** about his waist, fingertips warm.
On Sunday he blitzes the Milky Way
like a silver bullet, its the crazy guy holding the gun. Not me. For he's
like a star just born. His fingertips warm
treading lightly through the maze
of light and creation.

A keen look in his curling smile, he
leaps to catch the morning's first flight
on the climbing glimmers of a shooting star,
that so shimmers against the warm Spring nights.

The sunken sun, resting below
his feet, his body stands alone.
Wrapped in a pink and yellow glow,
he sets out on the voyage home
to the furthest reaches, the universe edge
where vast forests creep in the dust and smoke,
he waits,
in silence
he waits,
for Monday
when he's reborn. His fingertips warm.

The night is here,
a deeper hue.
I'm in your veins,
my host is you.

The forests howl
and seep into
your lungs to me,
my host is you.

Cool white sheets. Blue
sunshine filtering through
my hand learning your skin.
Dreaming of angels.

Empty shadows on
quiet streets.
The city breathes in,
grass blades quiver.

A drumming echo.
The hasty steps of
belatedness.
I shift my hand.

The faucets, dripping.
The sunrise pulling
your skin into alps,
but you’re not cold.

A high-rise drips its
concrete breath.
The sky breaks.
Exhale and return.

Perched on the wooden beams we would eye
the morning rain choke on the sun rays rising.
But the wind made you shudder and
with the birds I could only watch
as your goosebumps scaled the melting sky.
And it was like Time itself, or was it more like the sea?
Hunched over, your fists held your chin.
And it was like an orchid, or was it like a child, weeping?

I exist as a mirror
Wild lights have glazed over your skin
My whispers are tarnished
Our bodies a shield
Against the coming chills of a brittle wind

I linger with a breeze-like touch,
It comes out hoarse and swollen.
Thoughts  uttered with a breath of regret
Or a sigh of relief.

Your face turns foreign, a mesh of dark warmth
A light without the sun.
We’re all a wounded red
on the inside.

The bath water
is the colour of my eyes;
yet, I don't know
which is wetter.

Daisies blitz my watercolour skin,
dripping to the ocean floor.
Sunday's catch a northeast wind,
my watercolour skin, a liquor store.