five more minutes,
five more hours,
five more days,
five more seconds,
with you (it's all i ask).

cradled against you.
how much closer
can we get?
the space between
seems so vast.

and yet you feel
like warm sand
molded to my body,
just so.

your fingers
layered with mine,
and your moist breath
falling over my neck...
light filters in and feathers float by.

the day begins at the middle of the night.
i am not paying attention to the clock.
i am the one who takes the ticking,
the pulsing underneath every part of this moment.
i am listening and i am not listening,
because its something i am feeling all over.

I touch my scar
My favorite one.
Still perfect after
37 years.
It was so deep
I should have had stitches.
Thankfully,
Your satin sheets
Were black.

I tried
Slashing the wrists of poverty
With an EBT swipe
But he isn’t merely food stamps
He is needle
He is malt
Licker of oppressed *******
****** dreams
*******’d by sored gums

I sit on the edge of nothingness,
With a ring piece from my last beer
Wrapped around my finger
Like a promise ring to my lowly wife.
So I spit blood at the moon,
Like a toothless wolf howling in blue,
I’m nothing more than noise.


I remember when the darkness first came
And you were my shining light,
Leading me through so effortlessly,
I’d follow blindly,
Chasing ecstasy.
But soon the walls grew too high
And now you’re nothing more than faint crumbs on the floor.

Something I thought,
and drunkenly wrote,
hanging onto my last breath.
The last moment between loving you,
and learning to hate you.

She would always compare love
to a habit,
something one eventually gets
used to. I don’t plan on giving away
pieces of myself for the sake of
feeding my habit,
whatever that may be. But I can also see
how she could be right.

Dripping walls speak out – guarding a
possibility.
They may not be bothered until feeble
smokescreens arrive, unattended.
Skin won’t crawl and lanterns will not quake.
The stickiness of rain settles into all that has been
made at
biweekly intervals. Oh science! dearly fleeing
from my good luck, you left a compensation
for the deadbeat tattered robe. (An applied luxury.)
Backwards lashes of dancers in the sea.
Their grandparents' history to be taken with a grain of salt.
Some spinning in the misty moss growth
ignites the yellow from the evergreen’s pollen
seed.
It stops every other season when we take
and rub it on our clothes.
It’s not that sad, there’s no offense.
It’s something we've gotten used to.

You are sand.
You find a way into everything.
Everything
I touch.
Everything
I eat.
Everything
I see.
Everything is sand.
Keep your hands.
Worry about your own glass.
I'll be doing the same.
Waiting to be more like you.