Love, Face, Skin
My deer, I am your headlights, the pool to your reflection.
I am the forest of your trees, the wind which sussurates your branches, the sepia foliage at your naked feet.
I hold that precious orb in tremulous hands: the golden fleece, grey pools, a flaring nostril, your cornered lips aflutter.
My tongue makes love to your penumbral smoothness.
Sheathed in translucence you are, draped in the parchment of your life, a venous palimpsest, the sanguine estuaries, throbbing pulse.
I lay my hands on this partition, I knock, you let me in.
A solitary letter ending
Did any of this happen?
A figure in a dream,
Where I should be,
Her sad, lopsided smile.
And now my being
mangled in writing,
spoken to bits,
disrupted by dial tones.
Between us time itself.