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 4h Andy
Star
Light mist, morning dew
Fragrant flowers fill the air.
Embrace me, sweet dawn.
 4h Andy
JL
Blue Eye
 4h Andy
JL
I have love for you
Rooted in my jawbone

Your secret perfume
Convection heat in a back seat

I want your thin fingers
Tangled in the web of my ribs

I want to lose you
In the honeycombed purple layers of my heart tissue

I will cradle your head on my sternum
Letting my lungs do the work

If only
Your elbows were not so sharp

Then I would crave the dig of your fingernails
Your pastures of hair
The butterfly tremble of your lips

Speechless- words no longer hold the weight
My tongue on the novel curves of your sigh
Tasting the twenty summers of your growth

Trembling due to lack of oxygen
Trembling at the onset of lust

The kneading want of knuckle bones
Drawing me ever closer to the colors of light

Static in the stereo of the
Cerebral cortex

Bunched nerves
Shocked into submission
By your bleached bone canines


Open and breathe
The quick pinch endocrine valves
Releasing steam


Drape me with your skin
Wrap me up in your pulsing warm veins

I bleed blue
On every day of the week

I am deafened
By the rage of your heartbeat

I am stricken dumb
The symphony of your eyelids
Swelling in my chest a familiar lust

The wind from your eyelashes
Could blow us out of this winter
And right into spring

All the days of the year
I bleed blue

The dedication of your palm
On my cheek
Warms me like a leaf in sunlight

Peel me layer from layer
You will find no lies in between the pages

I am your machine
Waiting to be properly lubricated
I cannot wait for our first day under the sun
I can't wait to get you out of the fluorescent lights
Of the Assembly line
We will journey together to forgotten realms
And sleep beneath the strange constellations
Be careful of words,
even the miraculous ones.
For the miraculous we do our best,
sometimes they swarm like insects
and leave not a sting but a kiss.
They can be as good as fingers.
They can be as trusty as the rock
you stick your bottom on.
But they can be both daisies and bruises.
Yet I am in love with words.
They are doves falling out of the ceiling.
They are six holy oranges sitting in my lap.
They are the trees, the legs of summer,
and the sun, its passionate face.
Yet often they fail me.
I have so much I want to say,
so many stories, images, proverbs, etc.
But the words aren't good enough,
the wrong ones kiss me.
Sometimes I fly like an eagle
but with the wings of a wren.
But I try to take care
and be gentle to them.
Words and eggs must be handled with care.
Once broken they are impossible
things to repair.

— The End —