Lines Written Beneath a Tree

Maybe I can't get over
this blue dialogue of mouth to sky.
The way sadness tastes
like a wet cigarette.
My sex is a rosette
always opening for you.

Leaves resemble wilting breasts.
Only the flies offer my bare arms
their flittering touch.
Your skin still eludes me.

I would have you rustling inside me
as the hologram flickers on the wall.
Though infinitely unreal
it still looks, shimmers like love.