Man is made to wander amid his refuse.
The rust of his passing will be swept away,
then there will be nothing but the gentle sway
of tall grass, indifferent to the pale sky.
A valley of desire runs long and untended between trembling thighs.
Carry my wishes to them with the breath of a unrepentant kiss,
then, maybe, I shall swallow your little gasps; pizzicato notes on our merry old symphony.
Oh, how this smirk -is it yours or mine?- flickers our lovers’ delight.
I’ll be sure to whisper your name, so please, spare a thought for my lonesome;
one day I’ll be sure to remember it.
The limits of my flesh
are the failings of your words.
What body of lies you conjure,
wreathed from punishing verbs.
Still I yield to my own frailty,
encased, entrapped, entombed.
The cage is too small to be alone;
I’ll let them bury my grief with you.
I loved you
before I learned
how to breathe.
Who are you?
The empty spaces
Crawl ever closer
To fill the absence
Of weary souls
Yet the room