Chip away.
Dust falling, drifting down and i breathe in the particle smell to hid the evidence of excavation. Filling my lungs until I am heavy with your walls.
Smuggling your hurts inside my own until i can find a way to free them both.They leak out when it becomes too much, mineral and salt tearing at skin that only longs too.

My favorite thing is your face.
When it laughs tripped up by an unexpected smile fighting past a thorn of frowns. When i make you feel despite yourself.

Walls crumble and i wonder what will happen when i no longer cry for you.


Find me.
There’s this animal staring at me, my mouth.
I don’t think it’s dangerous. More like, annoying.
I want to run and create a hard impact into a permanent fixture.
It’s gotten into my head this way.
Leave my mark on something dark, and wet, and glistening, and maybe red?
I speak for me, “I fell down some stairs” I . . .

Sorry, it just sneezed and I couldn’t speak when it blinked.
I don’t want to hurt it. Who does it belong to?
Even flies and moths can fly away until they’re SMASHED thoughtlessly.
Who owns you?
Come find it.

A Pressing

I’m far from well Sebastian.
Far from cool waters
Just heat. Trickling down furrowed-in brow
Dampening pillow’s down
Lacking the strength to toss, just wait.

Stifle a moan, stare intent.
Imagine a clean, cream space
no yellowed sheets
no waiting
no hushed tones in case sleep has finally come to claim.

I’m far from well Sebastian.
Far from you, the shape of your face.
Though my fingers remember it clearly.
Tracing it out like braille
on whatever medium they can catch.

A clean, cream space.
Edged in the barest flight of dust
caught in a sunbeam, a tracing, an imprint.
Shift your gaze and it’s gone.

I’m far from well Sebastian.
I thought you knew. Thought it why you stayed.
Thought it exactly why you knew to sleep apart.
But no lock Sebastian? You tease… you test… you knew.

A clean, cream space.
Blank pages in a book.
A wild flower.
Though yellowing & too fragile to touch. Mine.

Because You Were Looking

crouched in thought. hands clicking. . .
cheek resting on my knee, movements to soothe
buried but not burdened.

crickets culling
the comforts are few an oh so quiet
smooth against the night whale
attached bare-knuckles . . .
zaire rocks the light if you can stand it.
pulling out your, “iIiee’s”
Pearlized-coating your tongue, your stories.
an where is Able?(truth?)
walk softly, limp an lean.

like the daughter of Herodias i beckon. head over shoulder coolly in blood tongue hiss,
using a voice that isn’t mine . . .
for what do i ask?
no, not his head.
his hands in a box, on a platter – –
to be delivered by Lavinia herself, (who is biting what’s left of her tongue)
offering this gift from between her own mutilated stumps.

because you are a deity
an quite simply;
i’ve been meaning to start on my collection- –
This is the gospel according to Cain, forever an ever . . .