even the dreamers
need to be called on their bluff;
we talk about endeavors
together
across the states,
and taking a weekend
to go some place
where we could tell a different life
at the parties,
and share the same last name;
I would leave the bedroom door open,
and you wouldn't need to knock
for an invitation to fill my bed
where we could finally leave
our chests most bare,
as we should.

but still, we speak of it
as more of an "if"
rather than a "when,"
and smoke on our ignorance
until we can play like
the "when" is "now".
and silly me,
I get so caught up,
only to be dashed when I see
none of it is happening
as it should.

you see the door ajar,
but you don't cross the threshold,
and it's been for so long,
that I certainly am no longer sure
which of us is the one
standing in the hall,
waiting to be beckoned
to listen to the blood
pumping through the other's chest.

he told me,
"the problem with our flesh,
is that it doesn't do so well
as to protect our bones;
you may prefer your heart to be bare
for the sake of calming the wolves
that you let slick your throat
with their rabid tongues,
but I know you know
that it's better to be the iron you taste,
than to be the polish for a man's gums,
and the wax for his teeth."

he painted my forehead
with the vermilion broth
he brewed from the throat of the hare,
and mopped his fingers clean
with my tongue
as we watched the vermin
give one last kick.

"but if you insist,
then I will be your cage
as I am your hunter,
and nothing will chew through
your pretty collarbone
before me."

love is taking a walk
through the woods,
and setting off a trap
that swings you
as high as the oaks,
and all you could do
is just admire the view
since you left your pocket knife
at home, and let the blood
rush to your face
as you hang by your ankle
until the rope finally snaps.

you give me half-hearted winks
that seem forced
out of obligation,
and you spit my name
into your sleeve as if it was
the flavor of last week,
like you want both of us to forget
you used to have fun with this.

you carry yourself
like the foliage and summer calm
that make your home,
as they do your soul,
and so you are beautiful to me.
how I hanker to be
like the willow you bed down beneath
and smile at with your eyes,
or the beer you sweep from your lips
with your tongue
to savor the taste of a good day;
how I hanker to be
something
of your world
that you adore.

I call the men who have ran off
with my affections
phantoms,
and rightfully so;
for they often say my name
as though it was another
way to sigh and let
a little breeze come into the room,
and they press their hands
against me so gently,
that I couldn't tell the difference
if they had never
touched me at all.

yet I still find myself
whispering their names
against my pillow
in angelic tongue,
waiting to feel their flesh once more
beneath my sheets
when I am hoping for one night
where it isn't just me
lying in the dark.

You don't have to talk
about breaking my heart
like you were just pulling weeds
from the front yard garden,
like it had to be done
before you went about your day
without a **** to give
about what I had to do
to salvage the flowers
that you thought
weren't worth watering.