daysofeverything

He dances a kind of genius against white walls; all prim and branched out The fireplace, calm as the setting sun, carries me                   to                      him Fingers sweep each other collecting dead skin and dialogue We giggle like short-lived kids playing with drugs His smile vintage, lips, dry as cocoa mix now moist as dew kissed grass The table acquaints us panties wilt to the obese rug among spilled wine and cradled glass

My world dissolves into autumn, the shade and the fire draped about my throat like so many jewels. I met the mist as an old lover, let the dew paint my lips with the scent of harvest. In a white memory, you are still walking away, down that same road. Your hair was shining like the fall. Your shape in the fog beckons; ghost or vision, I care not. I lose myself.

i have a thing for butterflies -            they were tattooed across my skin            when i left my mother's womb. they rest between my ribs and the hollow of my throat i was kissed with colors before i was born. you were kissed by  h a p p i n e s s and embraced by Eden - so you could find refuge in the color under my skin. instead of a heart, my blood beats with butterfly wings. and they glow when i smile or when my cheeks forget to blush. in the place of the heart the butterflies took away. so your smil

Sea-glass became your bones, brine your blood, and seashells melded into your skin. You were not quite an ocean when you said "This is your sign to love me." My body was like a building; tall, cold, almost unbreakable. I was metallic and sharp, towering over your waters. I remember taking your hand in mine, conch and coral shells scrubbing my skyscraper wrists, and laughing about how one day you would submerge every last bit of me. Your lips, riddled with argonauts, found my cheek and I cringed at the coarseness. You asked if they bothered me and I finally told you "I think I love you."

i need to stop looking for death in every body my fingers touch. i have been force fed old lovers, & slices of the moons lying dust for years- i am messy poems; i am fractured confessions. i am laughter & teeth. my jaws ache with the taste of wolves blood, & names. i am still hungry. give me your sugar; I will share my breath. remember, you are still made of starstuff, & i am no longer caged.

I am the sun and you are the moon: my tidal-wave tears are controlled by you So when it's 2am in the middle of the night, I know why I can't sleep tight.

sometimes my head spins with things that I keep in picturing soft sins making your skin sing . and you have heard me speak but you have never felt my teeth teasing flesh unleashing heat my tongue is fluent let it teach your nerves a special kind of peace and make you purr forget all speech vision blurs and all thoughts cease the night is dark but oh so sweet our stars laid bare between the sheets I swear my heart is yours to keep love, let me make you com- plete

The night is a doll that wears my skull, a loose pair of eyes that rattle like snakes, dreams a vision too bleak for a fist - too much for a voice. Self loathing is a mastermind, draped around these city lights, a picture of a seesaw that still gives vertigo: hindsight, foresight, hindsight. I teeter on my speckled legs and feed stomachs to the bushes.

Normalcy is in the windowsill, two cats and a novella later, chai stains in the wood and a blanket with a wolf pack howling to a yellow moon. Normalcy is one load of laundry, one reflection in every window after dusk, and one month between each existential crises, because life is slipping away faster and death seems to be approaching slower, not even worth a greeting – until he’s in the room hulking as a reminder from someone’s casket. Perhaps ‘normalcy’ is simply the distraction between each lifetime and the scales which weigh its value.