Windowsill confessions to dust and dead flies. Seeking joy in the arms of another, but still feeling your weight around my shoulders. You’ve broken a promise neither of us made but I can’t not hold you to it. Deal- Break- er Tendril roots in my spine Puppeteer clique master Packmaster pack alone — What false…

Are you still pressing flowers into paste? Filling mason jars with moss and false memories to share with lovers who have hands filled with thumb rings and not-quite-copper pennies? Pits of mud in your backyard- dirty your dress, just for fun. Sit in the sun and bake your leggings into your skin chewing on poinsettia…

Divinity grasped, between fingertips alight. I will pull it from you, that source beyond our understanding. Breakthrough, mold it into my own form. You cannot stop the inexorable tide that is woven into you. — And I have burned you from your tapestry- stitched you into one of my own design. Your edges frayed, supported…

Again, It’s me who is at fault. I have crossed this path so many times, I should know better than to feel safe. Even in the warmest embrace of a not-quite-yet-lover, under steel hatch roofs with melodic raindrops ever threatening above. Fall back unto my oldest catchphrase, “I’m sorry”, so maybe I can sate the…

Songs sung into empty walls with light string touched whispered dreams Our collisions with shadow touches forgotten kisses- and lost embraces. Never let go again Sweetest night breath, fullest moon sigh. Bracken blisters or brackish spit. Forget the face of your father again and settle on empty memories of time you spent alone- crying out…

This is what you wanted. A sudden collapse, with desiccated foundations I can be wind, rain, or ice. Whatever you like, whenever Time/thief, every plan a prayer But- And- So I have forgotten the gods, and have decided to be my own. Apotheosis without restraint. I don’t need your words or works. Come now, two…

Your Sisyphean scripture are bonded to my skin, but How many turns of your wicker wand have you played along the lines of my hand? The Great Collapse and Fall of Giants. Telephone pole crosses to mark our passing, as we cry murder for our not-kin. Tenuousness is a mind state

This light of heat and change is something I cannot justify. Wax wings and tied ankles. A Daybreak Coronet so bright and full, I’ve blinded myself.

We have opened soil again. Ridden down a horror of our own making- but we have broken it. Our flowered cries and wet faces looked up at the moon one too many times. Silken boxes holding poured promises and heavy lies