Lust is the pink pillow on my bed.
Plump, filled with unwashed thoughts.
At least they’re encased in dusky pink;
pleasant to the eye especially in the
golden minutes absorbed by sheer glass.

I want your head pressing
into the pillow, hard. Then your sleepy
breath will baptise the cotton after
sinful acts. I’ll preserve the dent you make
with the lovely weight of your skull.

I’ll surround the chasm with carnations.
Eventually, they’ll be a line outside my room.
Jealous tourists wanting to take pictures.

warm until I wake
I know I am conscious
with a sudden chill
but my eyes stay closed
and my body is stone
I whisper take me back
and I suppose
I shall pretend
until my pillow
answers

our bodies held
conversations
better than
we ever could

the pillow hearts me redder than you do,
      crowns my dreams regal over murky lands,
from somber realms to the wake of blue;

into her clasp, my wingless wishes skew,
      as her cuddle bids two ears to my demands,
oh, the pillow hearts me redder than you do;

she seethes my mind, till dreams vapor thru’
          the sky, bodies pitching, wings for hands,
from somber realms to the wake of blue;

they gnaw unto the moon, shave its bare into
     mirrors, reflecting the truth, so I understand
that the pillow hearts me redder than you do;

in her cradle, dismal storms I can't subdue
      so she showers the sorrow out of my glands
from somber realms to the wake of blue;

and when my barrels empty, floods issue
   upon her, but she stems peace from her sands
for the pillow hearts me redder than you do,
from somber realms to the wake of blue.