Your letters fail to impress me.
But yet, your words come up like roses that never dry up.
On stranger days, you bend red skies just to watch the joy and passion explode in front of their eyes.
But in my eyes, get deeper in the ink of your veins,
Under milk skin.
It is so close, so close to feeling like licking the honey off your spoon.
Hand to mouth.
Kiss me when the sky turns blue in hell.
A micro-analytic deepness.
Like an ocean so deep, you can’t drown in it.
You just sleep by me.
You just sleep.
With the strangest angel on my shoulder.
All I could ever breathe is the wings you have on.
Oh these wings can taste the fiercest night.
You are about the frailty of undesired and motionless sun sets.
I am, I am the echo of unheard sound in the linear of fading landscapes.
I left my hands in your woods.
Some sort of loss, but it is more fear of separation than anything else.
There is a place of depth.
A place where digging a hole is just another verse of a poem.
We call it heaven.
Through the madness,
Into the stars of acid.
You are the crystal to my clear, oh dear.
It began with a taste that never lost it’s flavour.
Not again, but it looks like I’m drowning in your sulk of sin.
This is the best part I know.
When I breathe you so hard.
You begin to lose your breath.
Through the edge of velvet.
Warm skin frost on the curve of your lips.
Kiss the rain under tattoo skies.
What if the sun could write a book about incompleteness.
So enthralling, that your skin burns off.
If you could read every word I wrote.
So unimaginative, you turn into the sweetest dragonfly landing on my arm.
It is those clear days that I can sleep sigh-fully on the wings of this dragonfly.
Fly boundless, fly neither.
There is some fiction in the tale of cancer,
It feels like a moonlight without reflection.
“A spoiled moon in the curse of a ship wreck.”
It seems like I’m dragging dirt in your ocean.
I don’t want to kiss the sound, inept pale reflection.
Now that you feel,
An aspiration of dust on the cashmere of your blanket.
Flowers grow here, but the prettiness is nothing like the flowers you grow on concrete.
There’s a strong desire to spit on clouds without tripping.
And the passion ran out the door like a house cat.
Fade my skin in used photos and mercury soup.
She ate me up with single plurals and unnecessary rhymes.
I am that way in many ways lost for words.
I found myself yesterday.