Windowsill confessions to dust and dead flies. —– I played romance across your face as your eyes followed mine. Sordid songs of love, spoken into existence for just one night Moon’s light and glassen confetti herald our midnight vigil to false connections and pretension.

“But I’ve no spade to follow men like them” How deep have we pushed into the warm mess below? You’ve all gone to lengths ‘I’ll never know’ My callouses aren’t worthy of that name. You forged this for me, a tool. Your desperate intent, unashamed- Finally Coalesced So when the time comes calling, I’ll dig…

I hear the Winter, curses rolling from her tongue. Her pilgrimage having just begun. The trees are leaving me again, Their colors running so vibrant as they fade. I am taken by them -much like you Their red death-blossoming leaves me gasping for the scent that isn’t there -much like yours But the trees will…

Undeath is violent, or so they say. A slight turn, rising from your earthen bed as the drained sun finally sets its daily toil complete. A measured gait, slow and dawdling, nowhere specific to be. The memories fading, leave you gasping but not quite for breath. You return home- to find it replaced. The living…

“No harm”, you say. — “No hope”, I’ll reply. ————- Brighten your eyes as you look up at me. Parking lot confessions. Your voice is so much softer than you make it in daylight hours I yearn for that softness. Pillow my ears, warm my hands on your back. Trace fingertips down again- the dip…

Crossroad King, with inflamed eyes- Let me grab your throat- string blood life -and stitch it to my own Pick your nail beds, scrape your suffering into keepsake jars. Line your halls with them, present your trophies of ‘my pain is far greater’ Burn it down, defeat the one who smolders, a reminder of your…

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…