I think divorce papers taste like the ash of a cigarette falling from his lips when he told her the news.

Like whiskey burning fiery hot as it slides down the back of your throat,

with bitter sweet tears pooling in with umami ink, the saltiness hitting the tongue like the papers to the floor, a weeping widow who does not suffer from a death but an absence.

I think divorce papers cut up throats like the edge of a chip, swallowing the news over and over again does not seem to make it go down any easier.

I think divorce papers digest like a cheap meal, the kind that you know will give you trouble, but also know is better for you in the end.

your breath lingers on my skin
even as your body pulls away
the bass beat drops to the rhythm
of the thing pounding my chest

your fingers trace my figure
every touch is a blessing and a curse
goosebumps at these drops of gasoline
that set my body on fire

if the touch of your fingers

is enough to make me fall
six feet under, straight to hell
imagine what happens when
you give the grace of your lips

soft touch --
cool air --
a breeze is flowing
through us
as we
sit and talk about nothing.
do you feel it?
that familiar twist?
the same thought
i had
when we met.
i saw violet shades
and holy hands.
you told me
too many people
want to be happy.
well,
i just want
to be.

I told you from the beginning...
If you touch me,
You'll hurt me.
You heard me,
So you laid your hands on me to pray

And I beheld fog
Swirling, echoing my thoughts
Reaching out; to feel

Imagine, I am sitting
at the piano.
Imagine, you come to sit
beside me-to join me.
And while I am playing,  out of the corner
of my eye, I see the twinkle
in yours. The longing in your eyes,
because I caress the keys of the piano
so softly, and you hope, that
I might, one day, do the same
to
you.
But I am no more than a simple musician.
So imagine this, I can play the piano,
but    I could
          make you
                    sing.

You always tell me of the
e l e c t r i c i t y
coiled in your bones, and
how I put it there.
But my dear, you are one to talk,
for you've got me
burning like the wire in
lightbulbs.

Imagine, I'm laying in your bed. Beneath your covers.
On your pillow.
In your arms.
Imagine, you press your thumb to
my lower lip, and you can hear my heart
beating like a hammer.
You remake my ribcage with your fingertips, and
you teach me a new language with your mouth.
You touch me with intention.
Imagine, I let you. I uncurl.
Moonlight filters in through the window and pours over us. That silky-white illumination is reflected in your eyes and it touches
you so softly, I could scream.
And the exquisite truth of it all is,
that if you ever did get to touch me,
I think I would die.