parched are the lips that recite your poetry –
your words demand everything to take flight...

the sky lightens with your touch, i’m left...
you set fire to most things, are you aware of...

sheath your gaze –
i have no response for your tiger eyes...

how cruel of april? to barge in with anger in her...
and you’re still there in the morning...

terrified of the light, we die with a mouthful
of words that took root on our tongues...

“…and the wound was a place of shelter for...
You sincerely ask. You speak the grief I’ve been...

With the waning light of the moon
stripping flesh from my bones...

you inhabit me. every breath taken is drawn to the...
you florally scent the air, and the irony is not...

I, too, tire of the yearning, blue-violet flames...
beneath the skin, waiting for either your kerosene...

the uninvited guest barges in and sits
at the dining table, offering slivers of...

I think of my hands as a tofu-press,
and dig into your skin a smidge harder...

Wash the sins out of my ribcage with downpour,
the monsoon cannot swell fast enough to abate...