I will crawl into you, one of these days;
Up one silk sleeve,
and under your skin,
and I will be in your thoughts
because your thoughts will be mine;
My own thoughts of how we became one,
one seamless, beautiful soul.
There is no space for the devil
in this body of ours
– my devil
from my shoulder
he has no place on
Ours –
I’ll leave him on our ink-stained skin,
where he can sulk,
or he can leave.
We will eclipse him,
you and I,
with the light of our love:
this love that could never be mine;
The love only We could feel.


This long, slow goodbye of ours
might last a week,
or a month,
or a single breath
of a Monday afternoon,
with the cool November air
fresh in my chest
and soft on your face
(as I will never be).

The piece of me which trails you,
clinging to your heel,
or loose in your pocket,
will be lost in the car park;
lost to that very breeze
which flushes my cheek and yours
in one breath;
Lost in a way I can never recover;
in a way you’ll not even see.


I want to be terrible.
To run and to dance and to
Bright and loud as the storm in my heart.
To hear the rain against an unfamiliar window,
in a colder town.
I want blue hair
between my fingers,
and the sting
of cigarette smoke in my eyes,
and the acrid
of another man’s breath
as he lies on my chest
and maps the constellations
in the ceiling plaster.


The night ended
— and began anew —
with a stare
not unlike the gaze
of a sniper’s laser
boring into me,
charging my blood,
betraying my soul
its hope for peace.

I scratch at my skin,
jaw aching with tension,
as the stifled dawn breaks
through roiling cloud;
A promise of a forgettable day,
and a prayer
that it takes this night.

Entre almas

Look at me.
Tell me who I am.
Tell me I look lost in here,
the low grade fear
rippling through my skin.
Tell me my eyes don’t know I’m smiling.
My smile doesn’t understand the joke.
The joke was a question.
The answer is a lie.

Look at me.
Tell me what I’ve lost.
That I’ll never find it.
That there is no clotting this wound;
No bandage so wide;
No panacea.

Look at me.
Tell me you know.
You can see me.
I’m real.


You wear your hair long,
and blue,
and unkempt as the garden of my soul.

I severed every flower I had,
their purples and reds falling
into thorns,
that your beauty might never be challenged.

You came to me,
through my rusting gate,
wilting blooms swept under sparse turf.
And yet,
you praised the weeds I spared.


I want to bottle your voice
and hold it close.
I’d keep an ounce in a locket;
A morsel around my neck,
to save the tension
of waiting
senses primed
for a worthy chorus,
drawing a clutch of notes
into birth.

My lullaby around my neck,
I could never fear the night
any more than I could fear
the dark brown of your eyes.
You would sing me to sleep
in fits and starts,
a note here,
a word there,
the formula of heaven.