the last time I wrote my hair was shorter,
copper, colourful and vivid.
I wait because that’s what I was taught to do;
you bleed until what you crave consumes you.
until your head is afflicted by the fervid, dark feelings.
when I crawl around my every day, I find pieces of you.
in plantain chips and Plato.
in wool coats and white coffee mugs.
it's impossible to tear myself from you.

She washes her hands in egg whites,
picking out stray shell pieces.
Sitting as still as the morning- quiet,
while the kettle sets itself a-steaming.
She hears that same Chinese flute
drifting down the hallway,
slipping universal truths
under each hotel room doorway.
She looks to the rain in the hills
like sorrowful sailor's wife;
a day could be time for a dream fulfiled
or the time that the rivers run dry.

This
isn't
how
things
should
go:

a slow exhaust
from the efforts
of holding on,

to existing outside
the pages of history.

Your love--or your lack of it--is sending me into a spiral.
One minute you are here, alive and ardent,
The next, you are my ghost.
You are the wave that is drowning me,
The box that is suffocating me,
The sun that is blinding me.
We have danced around this for so long:
The empty souls are coming--
But we are still standing here.
Perfect.
Imperfect.
Racing inevitably towards the end.

Please don’t let me go.

Dear ribbons of waterflame,
                       gold, green and blue
                swathes itself around my palms,
                                                            beco­ming
            a ball of radiant waters that floats in
          cupped hands and at the thought of
      love, it buds and curls like a lily's
petal
       and
             the years of hushed times
                  eat at my very soul, nulling
                      deafening me to the music
                             of the mint-dark sky,
                                of the flame-thorn sun
                          of the bone-white stars
                 My feet are kissed by the
            star-studded shores, washing,
       relieving the
  fragments of my shattered
past
I keep the shell of my hope
  shielded
      in my *****, near the heart
        My eyes dancing zultanites
           With my gaze on the horizon
                   rise the clouds of trouble
                    How long will I plan to thrive
                  when I am but a shrinking violet
            cold, iced with scorn
          but
       I am the Mistress of Waterflame
    Daughter of the Mers
and
  Scion of the Dragon Line

     So blood will bend and billow
         like flowers
            So fits the one of the skies and sea
             An expert who delivers in
        the trade of
    death


But the hope in my ***** pulses
      As my bloodlust evulses


                As I dream of the warmth that will soothe my weary