slow day

I watch all kinds of people now, some shock me, but mostly its the emptiness that steals me.

Tonight, I will make love with a woman who tastes like roses, and her hair will be wild.

Our mossy fingers will freeze, eventually and our lashes will fall, precise and dusky.

Just like the sun that is slowly floating up.

This is not love, we both know, and later when we wake, we will pretend otherwise,

so we can continue at our game

placid and long.

Last week, through torrential down pour, I caught a glimpse of the sun

and promptly ignored it. Its easier to pretend its a fog than to open my eyes to nothing.

I swallow dirt and darkness as if my bowels crave the grime and debris.



I am drunk off rose water and promises.

Pale breasts lay before me, a bed of flowers and calloused toes.

I am hot from the noose of bedsheets and sweat, sticky bodies in white light.

We are ending in the same tenacity in which I first discovered her.


The waiting and the ruin will stop my mind, cease the thumping that echoes every word.

The way my eyes wander, hear to bare soles. Naked in my loneliness.

I am watching the doors open and close

feeding my heat to the sleet and blue.

Tonight I will see the end of the world.

I will not close my eyes.
The way my