Ever since she left she keeps being gone. It is as if we were notBut if I am unrealWhy is my flesh stained by reality The shy part of my wrist a plum-blue and yellowSkin she has known as obscenely as her fingers reaching inside of my mouth. This is not a case of distance…
Tag: woman
Amour
This beauty your smile – like a piece of the sun, Laughter thick as cream Days endured I wait for you an unanswered prayer
All the world’s words are yours.
There are some words I never want to hear again. This is one of them. This word is you. This word spells your name, only in different letters. Letters that belong to an alphabet of a language I do not speak anymore because the only other speaker no longer speaks to me. It is a dead…
Notes to a friend going to meet my love
There are fireworks going off here. It’s like the world is calling out her name. Listen to me, my friend. Before you go there are some things you must know. You will meet her, and her beauty will confuse you. It will derail you. You will sit across the table from her and she will…
Leaving town
It’s been a while since we met here, hasn’t it? I’m sorry I don’t do this oftener. It feels not dissimilar to gutting myself with a cheese knife. It’s not for lack of things to say, words, or even how I feel. It’s just measly armour. So pathetic. Always prided myself on such courage but I…
When you leave
Sometimes you have to go. You don’t leave, but you do go. I had often thought about it but I didn’t know a person could really do that. You can. You do. And as much as recognising the difference is a comfort to me, it still means an absence. It still means you’re not here….
A letter for old love
The sum of my years has been spent knowing your body and learning the puzzle of how we fit and connect into each other. The plane of your flank flush with my arm. My face flat against your belly like a memory foam pillow. The sweep of your back meeting the convex of my front. My nose settling into the…
You bring out the masculine in me
You bring out the man in me The muscle and the sinew of me The ripping forearms and The sweat-dotted brow of me. You bring out the musk and the male The husk and the hewn Firmness of the flesh of the thigh of me You bring to awakening my torrid heat My tenuous passion…
Hara-kiri
The disaster they call love is the disaster I call you.
Reading broken, writing drunk: an open letter to Clementine Von Radics
Your books are maps. This is what I understood. I never went anywhere without a poem lest I lose myself in places where girls like me should not be lost. Places like the cleavage. Or clavicles. Places like love. Or worse – possession. Places like wounds that must be tended to, and places…
part-broken, part-whole 