Strawberry dawn, warming at the tips of my eyelashes. A cool morning steps across the naked floor toward me.
I part my lips, drink it all in.
False fingered, he traced the curve of my fielded body, wild and hot,
but could not follow the words in the wind of my veins,
which hollows me out like a shell. For I gave him everything,
everything, everything
that I was. And all of me, poetry.
Love is a dagger you plunge into yourself.
And leave it. And leave it.
Elegant birdsong, echo-chambered longing, sifts in over me,
hovers above my starry head in a dreamspell
state of atmospheric inbetween.
She could write a thing that would thread your heart
out through your throat.
And it was heaven wrapped in silken torture symphonies,
extravagant light, falling itself
feathered through trees,
they said.
And in those moments, he was so far away as…
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The Reluctant Poet 