sparkling explosions of
cellophane and
champagne nails on back,
glitter eyeshadow
spills into the cups of a bare mattress
where you lay me.
fallen star volcanoes
bouncing off my shoulders
rising like a climax to coat our noses
in roving freckles of gold.

I’m a crescent moon,
lit and bowing.
there is a tongue between us
hearts like lava
fill the blue gray cracks
ghost stories and berries in bed,
mouths red and sweat on necks
that some big pink tongue between us

you’re a gray timber distance:
dull and falling.
learning how to be gentle with does,
chrysanthemums, the faux antiques I left,
all the obloquious parts of yourself.
I’m a light shiver
wrapped in an afghan somewhere else,
sun with someone else.
laugh resounding in buzzing
for days, a string of
soft adjectives capturing the stun of
unrequited silence, devouring you
in mild cadence.
be gentle with yourself
and take cover in your recovering vituperation,
your newfound green,
forest of self-commendation
for trying to change.
hold a rose bud my way.
be gentle.
let the glare from my smile
blind you
in stages.

let the blossom it creates
shade you.



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