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A man with careful words moving at the pace of old forests. Warmth is a kind of language Spoken underneath black leather jackets With frozen hands on his ribcage. Trembling, like a struck match As you pull my knees apart. The fire is already lit. Slow-burning for months Beneath stage lights and long, lingering looks.…
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I almost told you I loved you. I don’t think I really do. I love the excitement of you.
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He arrives like a rumor that I almost stopped believing. Salty sweat drips from his brow. Mischief in the fine lines when he smiles. I had already folded the night. A small square, manageable, mine. The soft ache of almost, The gut punch of never will be. I open the door like a confession, My…
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I cling to the things you said, like grapes to the vine. The spaces between what you said and what I heard. The longing between things left unspoken and the time I see you again. (Miles to go.) Does it ache for you like it aches for me? I remain with fragments of memories and…
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I take in how you held it all together Head hanging low Like the full moon Face fixed Like a still lake One pebble disrupts the whole surface I toss my penny in the wishing well, but The mask drops The facade fades Like May slips into June There’s your pissed off pout A decade…
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My heart is fragile like a flower. Your temper, delicate like a bomb. Ensnared between love and hate. Unhinged rage. And fight or flight. What have we become? A blind woman, feeling my way through the endless dark. My fingertips trace the outline of what used to be love. Now, it’s hard and jagged. My…
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I feelthe way you watchmy mouth moveas you lean closer,until my lipsalmost brushyour ear.
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