"You're on your way
to the grave,"
he sighed,
caressing her breast
and nuzzling her skin.

"We all are,"
she murmured,
and shoved him aside
as she raised herself off the bed
and turned to leave him behind.

He lept from the sheets
and grabbed her long hair,
yanking her to the mattress
before she could escape.
Climbing on top of her,
he stared at her body
and ate her soul with his eyes
until she had none to consume.
He slowly leaned down
and drank in her weak breath,
exhaling it out in a strong sour kiss.
She trembled, and then,
she could tremble no more,
and learned not to breathe,
and grew silent as he thirsted.

He cut the quiet
with a snicker,
and flashed a wicked red grin,
whispering into her dull lips,
"But I know a shortcut."

short-handed love letters
written in the daydreams of a deliberate narcoleptic.

i send you the paper plane promises of summer
(sealed tightly in sweaty palmed envelopes)

you're not one to read poetry
yet i always manage to find feather light stanzas draped across your shoulders
held down by nothing more
than freckled thumbtacks

years fall away
like too heavy eyelashes onto cheeks

waiting to be brushed away
by the callused fingers of patient lovers

our slow and natural tendencies
our lips mimic the rate of gravity

you use a box cutter to lengthen the creases in my palm

but borrowed time
and fickle fate
will never heal heartbreak