Talking to you

Talking to you is like talking to air…I wonder if the clutter it takes for me to ache ever reaches your ear.

Do you hear?

Do you hear?

Talking to you is paper bag brown and vulgar.

Lusting exits, slumber begins…the death of bed.

Talking with me is no better.

If the words fall sour and the tumbler sticks due to lack of lubricated intimacy, click tracked to conversation of space and time, the sound of foot prints fading, I must hear…clank, clunk.

 Ravage me damn it!

Take it in and give it back out in the shout of your quiver.

Talking to you could be nothing, or everything. If I would stop to listen.

If you would drop in to listen.

If you would

Talk

to

You

   More.

The decomposing of me.

Crisp moon at my feet, reflect to me my truest nature.

Lie to me not, for you know no such thing as ego.

Tell me, let go.

“Let go.”

 Tell me…

Arriving at the green blades edge, my spine straightened by the freeze of the mountain water.

I fall into cold.

                                           .

                                                              .

                                                                                                           fall into feeling…

Memories once shoved into the cozy corner of the forgotten, are now jolted from their slumber.

Rushing the front of my brain like daggers shot from a booby-trapped tomb. Piercing the core of my denial.

Moods flooding, the murky reflections of meant to be.

The smell cringing in bubbles exiting my mouth.

Let me feel the burn of it.

Let me drift to the bottom, toes touching upon mud

Allow the fish to eat my eyes first.

No longer needing to see.

The pain they have witnessed, not just of myself, is enough to ache for the tinge of the first nibble.

The decomposing of me.

Hold death, let me feel the weight of water filled lungs, mouth gaping, deceived by the assumption of oxygen’s availability to me at all times.

Let me feel the disappointment.

Let the childhood stories, beginning with sledding and ending in crumpled panties and lost innocence, tag along with my last scream.

Allow me the release of knowing I am food.

Not driven with purpose yet fulfilling THE purpose…to feed what I have eaten.

No permission needed,

All are welcome to the piece.

Whispered Flaws

I write to you in my sleep.

Diamond sky, stardust lining ALL skins.

The waters touch quenching ANY thirst here or after.

The desert crumbling beneath toes dipped in valley.

You are there.

Visioned.

Seen.

Falling from risen.

True in being nothing.

Giving everything a meaningless meaning of seeing.

The dreams, like clouds, we dance upon their vapor.

Whispered flaws yelled from clasped claws…

Sleepily you write to me also…