She reads my poetry
in the way that she
makes love to me,
slow and
deliberately
so hot that she's melting me.

I try to write faster to outlast her,
but failure is a part of me
like broken down machinery
and still
she fixes me.

miles and miles that run between us.

whilst I am crumbling and falling apart and you are dragging your body through hell we stumble upon each others echoed voices
in the dark
the whispers make the stars light up above me and slowly guide me to you
and I paint pictures of you in my head wrapped in my arms with the pale moon reflecting in your eyes.
these miles are slowly shrinking and closing between us, this feeling shattering through my body like I'd pulled a trigger on a gun

all of the miles between us close in, until there are none.

Going through the day without doing anything is nothing.
Living your life without taking risk and having adventures is nothing. Living your life without crazy adventures, stupid
decisions, heartbreaks and happiness is not living.
It just means that you
are merely existing.

prophet tongue with
stabbing perceptions
i gave him my name
while in bed.

soft white curtains
though still chamber thick
cold steel hands
and the room sliced into pieces
by morning light
but haunted by night sounds
crept into open wounds of the heart

chills.

his hand
resting on my thigh while he snores
summer bruised and adventurous
though callous youth
with his unbandaged scabbed knee
skating last night.

moment forgotten in the carride
but a stone monument staring
at me on the kitchen counter.

i want to roam the halls of museums
with you
and float through history
as we make
our own