![the.gr[e]y.painter by essenceofsky](http://24.media.tumblr.com/avatar_7451cb9d278b_40.png){kind=avatar}
I love you. I know because I can’t stop bending letters you didn’t birth into pictures of your hands holding me.
It Takes Two to Tangle (3.27.13)
I could write you
a million words.
Could love ballad the ways you are outstanding
into tens of thousands of stanzas and songs,
You could rain from my pen like it pulled ink from quiet storms.
And none of it matters,
If you can’t
read me
like I’m poetry.
Freewrite 2 - 3.24.13
She guards her breastplate
Says she doesn’t gamble
But
will only kiss you if you
Taste of roulette
And double downs
And dice rolls
And other ways she might end up
Alone
Dental Records 3.14.13
When I saw her, I kissed her
like she had never left.
She recoiled.
Smiled.
“I forgot that you’re a biter,”
I pressed my forehead to hers
until my name
was falling off her tongue like
loose-change through pocket-holes.
But I’ll never forget
that she forgot me.
“Comin for to Carry Me Home” (Freewrite - 3.5.13)
Some nights she was
a double-take-smile
an affirmation by soft-eyes and fluttering lashes
that hobbled like me wasn’t quite sure what to call
a proof that fit for photographs was possible
for a misprint puzzle piece that never made it to the box
a post-modern sculptor able to see art in me;
I would have lived in her hands.
Other nights she was
a swift machete swung
low,
swung chariot,
swung like her father taught her,
like comes natural to her,
like she swung all her life,
good follow through;
the kind of sweeping shot to legs
that reminds you of your damaged parts and
all the things you’ve learned to walk through
your wobbling knees; atrophies you had
forgotten were ever not a part of you
that turns prosthesis into
paper mache and
reminds you that before your
feet found this callous
that the coals used to feel hot
I never
go to sleep
ungrateful.
Sernyl
she:
undressed, or maybe
sun dressed; set
herself, her source, her fire
down past horizon
became moonlit
in a dark room
above a sea of quilted
wing fragments
she:
floated up towards the ceiling
like feathers were never
necessary ingredients for
her fly, says she
doesn’t have a twin, but
I listened as
she:
became her own
reflection, watched
her voice become
an echo of a collision, between
bodies, between airborne and landlocked,
reverberations of beautiful crash landings
sing out into this space like
time signatures on love ballads
I hope become standards
I would love to hear my
children one day mimic
her cadance
she:
tastes like earth,
carbon and sulfur and sediment
like sky
pushed Seraphim
I understand why they
gathered up remnants
of her, reverent
and named the drug
angel dust
