I'll kiss your pillowcases to stain them
Cover them in orange lipstick
For you to remember my lips
and when you wash them,
if you manage to gracefully clean them
I'll let you forget me
and I'll forget you

No place for roleplay in this
illumined shrine of sanctified
skin and porcelain

where the most literal of lovers
whelm in the stainless steel
hot spring's silver stream

where the smoke screen of clothing
clashes with the steam cloud
rising like ironic bread
in Eden's kitchen

where a woman turns around
wrings and whips her satin
***** of hair around a shoulder
leaving to her man ideas
and a bar of soap that slithers
effortlessly in his palm
like a melted deck of cards

where a bubbled corner
is embedded in the small of her back
elevated from the tailbone
to the neck and lowered like the zipper
of the dress he parted not so long ago

where a jolt of urgency
accelerates an exercise in
the ski of soap around the junction
of the hips and outer buttocks
and a segue silently approved
by her arms hoisted to attend
to hair thought to be already
washed and conditioned

where the soap is shared by
both hands on the scaling of
her sudded sternum
presaging an unseen demand
from the beacons of progression
swelling in the wet heat

where a hand of soap and
hand of slide verifies the demand
of hands on her beaded *******

where he answers her swell
with his stiffness in the final feel
of mystery before a soft shift of
arms approximates a plea
for a frontal rinse

where hands return to ******
crowned chest sparking the advent
of eye contact all the while

where his ****** intensifies
in proportion to the eyes closed
in anticipation of their saturated mouths'
magnetic duet

where saliva and the cooling water mix
on their cameos of tongues slipping
through their lips in the midst of the mist

and where their towels hang in
a forgotten heap while he takes her
dripping body in his arms and
carries her to where the roleplay
will have to wait after all

mornings I get up
early and watch
the night sail
into a water
bucket so I
can wash
over in
moonshine.

I still try to wash you from my life,
my body,
my mind,
I still take all my clothes,
my sheets,
my towels
And put them in a wash with too much detergent praying that this time,
You will not be there anymore,
That your scent which I know faded months ago,
Will be erased from my memory.
I still smell that ******* hoodie which sits folded in my closet,
Like it did,
When it,
When I,
Waited for you to come back and
Claim it,
Claim me.
I still smell what I used to when I burrowed my head into your chest,
And get hit with a wave of nostalgia,
Breathing deeper than I ever had before,
Because you taught me what breathing felt like.
Because you showed me that I had never known what air in my lungs felt like before
Because I feel like there is water in my ******* lungs and I am gasping for air daily.



[This will never be finished. I have nothing left to say. There is nothing left to say. This will be added to the collection of unfinished work which will never see the light of day again. Because we all need to give up on something in this world. And I can't give up on you as easily as you did to me. So I will give up on putting my thoughts on a page with some grace and delicacy and fluidity that moves perfectly. I will give up on that]

(e.m.w)

The rain
slops upon
the concrete,
washing.

It washes
away what we
cannot see
and sloshes
the ground
in merriment.

I hear it
drench
the toughened
soul and
soften the
pine.

The drumming
hum of rain
on the sill
sends
slumber
to even
the restless.

And the soft
lustre
after a fall
in which
the world
sparkles,
causes
even the hardest
hearts to glow
gold.

He caresses her palms so often
And kisses her on the forehead
The way she likes since her parents
Never gave her the love she wanted;
It's as if he could erase the scars
That has been permanently carved
Inside of her for so long.
As each kiss lands on her skin
She forgets the the wounds are so deep; his touch is strong but it is tender and with each graze
Her pain starts to wash away.