wanted to
warm your bones
the way you
cooked mine with your
neon warble
you are the
constant climber, the
long down yodel.
the notes as stems,
sip the self-conscious
sweetness poured slow
quiet now, a
chirp: the softest
coo, the amber
hush of evening rests
in a burgundy meniscus
You did, still do.
ReplyDeleteMy legs are spaghetti.
Who, You.
That smile, that grin
fuzzy hair, that chin.
The beauty,
elegance,
folded silk.
A rose,
indeed.
The rose's torns are visible.
Tickles and tingles.
Torns empower,
and breaks down.
No more broken pieces,
a puzzled mind.
I'm left
as a questionmark.