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?

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

My heart is weeping in a million pieces
and I don’t think even your breath could
stop my rage; at least
not like the last time.
And there are some nights where it feels like
I just can’t stop crying.
Even when there are no tears,
I just can’t stop crying and giving
my heart out to every single breathing thing.
The Earth is groaning just to the left of my lungs
and your eyes cannot halt the earthquakes of my fingers.
I’m just so ******* lonely that it breaks
my ******* heart to see myself
sleeping so alone.

And yet,
the deluge that my eyes pour forth to flood,
won’t drown the fact that you’re in my blood.

You are a child of the Universe.
The pith of your heart and the atoms in your skin
have existed since the beginning of time.
You have an unquestionable right to live.
You are integral and vital.
Your steps grace the Earth with your presence just as,
the Earth graces your feet with its presence when you walk.
Your identity is a facet of humanity just as,
your body is a temporary expression of the Universe.
You can never truly die.
When you choose to accept this,
you may dwell in radiance.

There is poetry in your eyes;
the call of spring rests on your teeth.
When thieving lovers punch and prise,
in generosity you bequeath,
a piece of you in evergreen,
a piece that leaves you incomplete.
How vulnerable and bare you seem,
and your lips taste of defeat.

[it's 9:28pm and the moon is sending me tremors and I'm
burning but nothing makes me shiver as much as your]

Eyes steeped in beauty agleam,
as lilacs bloom around your feet.
How vulnerable and bare you seem,
your lips taste soft and sweet.

why is the moon the only face I have to kiss me goodnight?
I want you and you and you and I laugh when
I realise that the only living thing I've slept beside is my cat. I
want to see you, all of you [and you], all of your
gruesome angles or unfortunate shades of light, all of your hasty glances
when you look across the pillow, an
insignificant smile gathering at the left of your lips
when you look across the pillow to see,

[my hands trembling from a lack of
holding foreign skin
and you]

when you look across the pillow to see me.

When he talks, I can hear it.
Every syllable, I can hear it.
Every time his tongue whips the back of his upper teeth I hear it.

When his lips are shooting arrows, slicing crimson haze I hear it,
hear the anguished rumble of Venus birthing stellar symphonies,
and when his vocal cords are trembling do I hear this convocation.
As the sun begins to cry, do I hear of merciful heavens.
When fiery lips blast melodies that stun my ears and sear my tongue,
do I hear the distant quell as nebulae shiver crack and burst.

He slaughters constellations with prose.
He ignites the universe with murmurs.
He pulls Andromeda in speech,
every astral breath and screech.