jupiter, dear
i love you for not letting the hormones in your body control your every move
the raging ocean and cascading waterfalls
dripping from your supposed emotionless hands.
you have different chromosomes than me
and you dance and i sit and you prance and i try to live
freely.
jupiter, dear
i don’t hate you for your chemical reactions
or the way you are so stupidly attractive
to me.
i will never know what it’s like to be exactly like you
strung on bodies and sunlit shapes
feeling around your out of body experience.
drunk on hazel eyes and i am tipsy off sweet conversation
ripping and passionate in the nighttime
and i am teasing and tumbling with somebody as pastel as the moonlight.
but i can’t plague you for the corruption of humankind
you aren’t a silk butterfly but at least you can fly
jupiter, dear
just because you have a different chromosome than i
doesn’t mean anything about who you are inside

We used to be XY and **.
We had it going.
The alphabet had purpose and biology was preparing to do the right thing.
It was all good and warm and morning always came with a smile.

Now we're just Xs.

Morphine & Cola, Mrs. I can't believe I told you this is, so exacerbating I Can't sleep; even this weather riles inside me as we weep. There wasn't Anything that'd have shown you. There hasn't been a single sprout of Showmanship, or the erstwhile philanthropy that needers' raise their Eyebrows to and to. This is the degree we know it. The subtle afterglow With everything that you've known, and while the snow settles on your Window sill. While winter rime binds its ice to the wheat, and every soft Little seedling sewn, whispers its final sentences before autumn while it Drifts itself to sleep. There were the cards and the faces of Jacks among Aces, places uplifted by China dishes of porcelain overflowing, like Tencel in socks, woven into the pockets of trousers. Where does the Mischief go while it certainly isn't ours, and the dandy light across your Temple bares a gleam.

Some things are enriching, but yet too sordid to stare at. While the game Is enriching, the pain is too much to bear, and whether in vain or *******, the likes of you, make these lips of mine much softer against Your finger tips. Tips of fingers, petals of flowers, baskets of fresh bread Baked with wheat flour- follow the noon bird, fancy a sit by a brook, and Listen for the whistle-less, whistling of a rook.

Grey is quite golden too. Like the same tencel that I've used, or the silken Web treated to a loom, like lightning bugs out for an early dance on the Afternoon. Seldom as moss on sidewalk path or the pangs of laughing Heart at mass. What does the new bird bring? The bride of this coming Spring? For every sugarcube we taste, we save ourselves from second Base. Dr. Narrod with a gentle touch, the inspection you love so much. The gentle morsels smoothed upon the hand. The girl-like woman with Her ewe-like lamb. "For all of you who wanted them 808s, can you feel that ******* bass. For all of those who wanted them 808s, can you feel that ******* bass. I like the way you move."