Clung to your white skin
Beaded at your fragile breast
Stuck to your bedsheets

it's scaring me
that little forgotten things
like biking to school in the cool morning air
are coming back
and the lack of familiarity reminds me
that i am losing
what i am meant to be.

Sleepy sunset.
Fiddles clicking
keys
into locks
of hair
breadth apart.
A part
of something
much more grand
then we had ever
planned.

I think about you
I think about how much I think about you
I think about how I think about how much I think about you
I think about you everywhere
And think about how I thought about you everywhere
And think about how I think about how much I think about you everywhere

You
Have
Become
The
Only
Thought

In anticipation of the too-few precious hours in tandem, we divulged our carnal cravings at each others’ hands, but omitted fragments, saving them for some other day, finding them too truthful.

When you hold your body to mine, as you have told me you will, I want a flurry of colored breath, peach and magentas and crimsons slipping translucently from every part of me and wafting in and out and between us like a graceful fog, and not just the force of fingers that have waited too long to touch, but the electrostatic brushes of life’s restlessness falling slowly into their own gravity as we learn to trust the moment.

Our lips are full of nerves and that is why a kiss is so much more than symbolic. I placed my lips to the skin of an orange and I was met with the sensuality of the whole terrain of this world. Intimacy then, is the slow press that reassures humanity – the invitation into a world with no walls – the rush of blood that comes from being completely receptive – that is the kiss I want with your soul.

After all the epochs of lovers, these are all the same words, but they are lanterns bouncing across the plains and sparking anew in the way that the naive are always entranced by the lighter in their hand when they first learn how to light a cigarette, elated and dizzy from the *****. Twinkling.

Sometimes all it takes is a breath and I am light and wind and red paper confetti and the moon and a golden orb that turns all it touches into a shining constancy of what’s called love – and I visit your heart knowing that you can’t tell it’s me, and then I must leave– and I know that I was not in my body, but that it must have kept existing while I was gone because I always wake up in tears, and someone had to cry them.

Conventionality dies between us and there are no titles or promises to speak of. I once found security in labels, only to find that they leave no room for the inevitable growth and weathering of time. So I ask little of you – only that you are always true with me, and that you occasionally put your hand in mine.

Love preservation—
On the metal of the time capsule sits:
a seed.

Rusted butterflies swoop
Fall into the copper canyons of



My tires.