if i weren't already dead, i may attempt to dig my way out of this tomb, this too little dirt covered hotel room, no charges, no room service, no checkout times, at least my bed is always made, but no one leaves chocolate on my pillow.
some day, new words will follow, within each moment how many times have i thought and unthought, my ideas deleted, steady breathing in, out, waiting, waiting until something directs my pen, stab the page, blood stained ink, watch it bleed while waiting on my next confession.
my latest wounds bleed from her laughter, in this moonless night with pastel tears, these overheated too hot summer nights i sweat dreams, golden mournings reject the darkness as i have been rejected, each night i am almost missed but never called for.
i have drank the wine tasted the bitter sweet, she is passion that easily corrupts, chasing my senses, my sins playing like music, silver blossoms lead these cravings, teach me how can i now unravish once what i have praised in love letters, each poor secret note, what separate pulses bind together, beating.
this shipwreck drenched already on an island, this narrow rough canal, willing to give and take upon the tide, full force rising, these waves reach, grab, holding on, suffocating only until the shell of the soul remains.