Poets should never make ghost children.I whisper cheap metaphors into your needy ears until, like funeral flowers, they rest upon the atlas of your mind. You with your napkin love letters and cloudy storm eyesare the only one to ever make my scaled spine quiver. But, my veins ache from consuming too much ink. I am gagging on black blood as it spills from your fingertips to rest upon my lips. You asked me once if I could read the words carved into my limbs like prophecies of you and I we were written in the universe of freckles dotting my thighs. I tried to plot constellations along this neurotic cadaver skin and only managed to contradict you.
Convince YourselfIt is the breaking of bonds:two bodies peaking at the chest,volatile, volcanic,not so much sharingas simply in the same space;wayward arms grappling, legs flailing.It is a pulsation of--a remembrance and want of--freedom:pulling apart so hardand ricocheting backwards. Footloose, spread-eagled, tumbling head-over-heels.Acrobatic.[If it were underwater, it would be a dance.It would make the fireflies crythat they could not be there;could only see it (blearily) through apposition eyes,everything convex, glittering like cobwebs:diffracted rainbows obscuring the (re)solution.]It is all engraved in a shudder:a shiver, a tiny tremordeep in the braided chordsof her espalda;quavering like the bowelsof the farthest caverns,stalactites vibrating with timbre.As she buckles forward,those rubies bulge down her seam,those Rosetta stones divulging secretsin long dead languages [languages never invented]to anyo