~                                                          ~
Poe­ms. Leave a special subtle fleur
lingering  around. In colours they
live. In auras of poets. They're
born. They turn. They dye.
The world. And die.
~                     ~                         ~
In the middle Earth we'd love
and cherish our liberated
slick yearnin's. Limbs.
Craving caresses.
Demanding
more.
~     ~                ~             ~              
I'd kiss you like a crazy
flutterby. Levitating
upon your body.
In pleasure.
You. . .Me
~~~                                             ~  
Endless words stream from
your radiant thoughts.
Laser swords are no
match to describe.
How you Scribe.
Vital. Sensual.    
Invitations.
~           ~            ~              ~
My eyes sip you. Wordless.
You purr. In my palms.
Lustful breaths.Dim
Light. Pressed. Lit
Flames. Are we.
Together.
  ~     ~

she slides her slender
white fingers down the
branches of his spine

her eyes melted like
glaciers and lips as soft
as freshly fallen snow

skin lustful, but heart
unforgiving, exhaling
his every intention

she is autumn in his
palms, her trees bare,
the leaves rust fallen

flashing indifference,
thoughts plucked in
shades of violent rose

You made a poet fall in love with you
And expected her not to write sonnets about your eyes
Haikus about the way you kissed her in the moonlight
Expected the fire in her heart not to inspire couplets
You made a poet fall in love with you, and when you left
Expected her not to write pages about the ache in her chest
Write a soliloquy dedicated to her tears
Expected her not to feel every gut wrenching moment of the pen hitting paper like your words hit her in the most vulnerable places of her mind.
You made a poet fall in love with you, and you expected her to be silent.
That is no fault of hers.

Now I'm left trying to figure out which of the broken pieces of my heart, that lay before me, have your name written on them, because they don't belong back in my chest.

-F.T.