Timeless and graceful
Draped in our ancient shadow
Luna bleeds for us.

Sleeping evades me
This ordeal, my ringing ears
Then becomes now. ****.

Wrap your pale skin
around my dark eyes;
I don't want to see anymore.

Crush my ribs with
your peppermint breath;
I don't need to breathe.

You love him like you should
for he is precious but
I am the one living
on your wet
fingertips.

That's just the way it is.

I sing in the night
to the centipedes and
slugs, to the bats and
the branches it is
a tired dirge,
heavy and long.

This death of ours,
this sacred end,
we hold it in our
sweaty palms
bruises
our tired backs
and our growling stomachs.

We hold it close, this
death of ours.
This final moment,
the only one of
our choosing.

The bugs and the bats,
they own the night.
All I do is listen to the worms
crawling in the ground
and try to imagine the taste
of your skin with three days
of me on you.

In violent light,
shadows are sharp, crisp and clean.
Heavy is the night.

The salt of your skin
rests uneasily on my swollen tongue
as I ******* like your life
depended on it.

How many times have I wrenched
the impossible from the ether
and left you slick and aching,
bereft of any intelligible thought
save for the feeling of having
been entirely filled and
completely consumed
in the same
endless moment?

One moment can change
your universe.
How long
does it take to lose an arm,
to come for the first time,
to surrender?

How long does it take to cut too deep?

I can become your
deity in the violent light
of our sanctuary
and you can take my
blood while I sleep
in your hair.

Heavy is the night
but your skin is cool
and all I want is to
die inside you.

The salt of your sins
my only meals as I
burn in the furnace
again.

I can't take my eyes
away from the edge
of our shadows
in this
violent light.

I can't take my eyes away.

You will not be meeting me
at the train station,
wearing nothing but a sundress and
the warm scents of
wet desire rising as
a lustful fog
from your steaming forest,
anytime soon.

The heat would **** the sun.

I will not be showing up
on your doorstep,
rigid and pulsing
with the blood of
centuries coursing through
my thick roots,
in the nearest future.

The pressure would crush the moon.

Instead,
I swim in your teacup
and warm baths
while you roam in
the smoke at the edge
of my shadow.

I feel your soft whispers
across the ocean of time
as they float on broken
spiderwebs of memory.

Our love is in the words
between the worlds;
resting in the
wet soil of
an afternoon nap,
we bloom as one.

As the fire of night
descends, destroying
the boundaries of time
and space,
we transcend all that
is cold and unforgiving,
leaving behind only
echos of wanting.