Our Picture.

I will write about us 
When this unearthly hour 
Gives way to the picture 
Of You and I dangling our feet 
From a sunlit bower. 


I will write about how 
You would read my sullied toes 
And etch a sorry smile 
On your timid brow. 


I will write about my 
Hauled up skirt brushing against 
Your flaccid fingers 
As we watched the free sky. 


But most of all 
I will write about the way 
You render your love 
That makes this picture 
Me,survive the daily gall.

Another train of thought derailed,

Another page torn to motes of white,

On the floor and now in my head,

As I shut my eyes and seek the light.

Fuck,I can't write. It's a disease.

Our November.

A thousand tree tops,
Undulated in the crisp,
November wind.
Like old,
flaccid paintbrushes,
They briskly painted,
The crimson sky,
To a beautiful blue.


You sat across from me,
Twitching your lips,
Wiping your brow,
Cringing your eyes,
Gulping your words.
Like an infant waiting,
To be fed with words,
For a cue.


I smiled,
Ruffled your hair,
Patted your jowls,
And drew patterns,
Of sundry sweet-nothings,
On the clear sky.

Firefly.

I am the hot firefly,
From the summer long gone,
That you had once caught,
And have now bottled up,
In your stinking ‘Old monk’


 I light up the gloomy attic,
That houses your lost ecstasy,
From the heart that raced,
But is reduced to a kernel,
So passive and lonely.


 I crouch over my dim bottom,
To feel the waning strength,
Of my light, and the room,
In which you languish, pallid,
Insipid yet mulling.

...


 You move to the window,
And see the likes of me,
Gliding over a narrow stream,
Under the willow.
Glimmering grains of light.


 You return and shatter,
The dim bottle.
Stare at the shards and stutter.
I let out my burning light,
Once and for all.