Your words put out my passionate fire
You ignore my calls of lust
Your breath ***** in all thoughts of desire
And I'm left breathing in our love of dust.
I used to think you felt the same
But the dust now hardens to rock
Now I'm a broken, burning flame
And time is ticking on the clock.
You write me letters of your love
But it's full of lime and sour
I pray to heaven's hope above
That we can last just another hour.
But time is up, and so are we
The fire has reduced to ash
The smoke has cleared and it's easy to see
That you left me with an incurable ****.

in the youth of the morning
a glass figurine grasps rays of light
the sun graces his soft contour
radiant colors bouncing off the
***** surface of the table
the dust does not near his skin
his lineament is something i saw once
in a dream, across the ocean.
do i brave those tumultuous waters?
to what end?
so that my fingertips may keep their distance?
so that we may breathe the same air?
so that our eyes may burn under the same sun?
my wistful dreaming knows
not reason but the desire
to witness the distant diamond
glinting like the stars
that beg me to drown in hopeless ventures
yet my lungs would happily fill with saltwater
if only my skin could know
the touch of an untouchable

he warmed her edges until she
caught flame,
so she might burn bright like
him.
he splintered her spine and
peeled words back from pages,
flung them to the wind.
now the pavement is wet with
the shreds of her,
flushing away the last vestiges
of who she was.
she was once a book
with his name written in red
in every chapter.
each of the stories shared,
cautionary tales
thrown on the ground and
trampled under careless foot —
but all at once,
in a furious storm, he
tore himself away,
and even she cannot make sense
of what is left behind.