you trample me with your soft fingers;
clay in your palms – i am clay in your hands...

with an elephant’s hunger,
i yearn for the light that...

i added praying that i don’t dream of you to my
nighttime ritual, it’s not that you’re not...

And I draw breath, parting myself down
the seam like a hairline fracture forming...

i am bereft of truth;
wholly-wedded to the thought...

a songbird cries, and the dull ache of
loneliness creeps in like an assassin...

The body is a river of grief, and at its mouth—a...
you learn quickly that speaking about the wounds...

these nights, the air is in a drunken stupor,
borrowing spirit from our wine, daring...

my throat pulsates while you nock
your words on your tongue...

cruelest fate – we dance our waltz,
alternating the lead and the other...

you cup soft breath in your palms,
offering it to the stars as an exchange...

transparent words; the strings still dangle
from the same lips that sprouted them...