Bruises

The fleat is blistered,
steps and stones can only bruise me but words do little to console me
Whenever one gets lonely
She gets lost in lines and verses.


The tainted tongue with its whips and names;
 strike a match on my trembling aches.

It pulsates the rage from my veins to name the moans in the lips of desire yours....

Sorrow rips and grips at the sheets;
pulling the air from the lungs to your skin;
 lacing your smoke with my want....

Fingertips on top of fingertips;
 the way the moment finds the space
to claim the quivering in your heart from race.

Heat of the body glistens from the stems;
 into hips and swaying vices.
Taken the curves to follow me into spells of curses;
 finds us falling to eachother in mangled, heated torment.


The fleat is blistered,
steps and stones can only bruise me but words do little to console me
Whenever one gets lonely
She gets lost in limbs and searching.