i wish you would say my name

           just to hear how it sounds
             (from those lips)
                        (your lips)


; i wonder how i taste
           (like coffee, or rain?)


                        and if you'd say it again
                           (and roll me on your tongue)
                    , whispering at the delicacy.





                                                                                     (you taste like cinnamon.)

the trees did not complain
the day we carved our initials
into their calloused skin

and isn't it sad that something
so beautiful would put up with
that pain for a love that
would not last?

I am he
   who blistered and
   purpled his aching
   fingers, upon playing
   the saddest, dissonant
   melodies out of
   his old, untuned
   guitar, whose strings
   of somber used-to-be's
   he ceaselessly strummed
   and plucked under
   the dullest starless
   night sky; and
   sing of his
   weeping heart the
   poetry of melancholy
   notes half-composed.

It is me--
   the lone guitarist
   on broken avenue
   who never stopped
   playing his love
   song of rue
   since you left--
   whose only lyrics
   is your name
   and your words
   he dearly kept.

All I need is your skin
Like the clearest water I'll dive right in
I'll drink you like the warmest gin
Just to feel whole again