This doesn’t mean what you think it does.

I am recalling a certain January.
Your voice humming melodies in my ears
and you whispered that there was
a temple between my legs and
that you were a new-born believer,
your agnosticism currently leaving
tire tracks on all passageways that
lead to the window.
I knew then and there that
everything I am is everything that
unhinged you and unhinges you still,
and I remember it all
so clearly; you said,

I am at the mercy of your words.
Kiss me like you want my knees to hit
the ground, like the thought of me
standing still is against everything
you stand for.

It’s the end of May now.
There are burn marks around my
mouth from when that filter
settled in five months ago
and let me just tell you
you really can tell a lot about
a person from the way their heart
breaks and while yours shattered
into a thousand different pieces
the surface of mine
cracked and crumbled
until I felt its top layer
deteriorating and completely
falling off to welcome a clean slate.

Pieces falling to my feet
like dead leaves. New but familiar.
We’re at layer number three now.

Mother nature greets a
new season.


You, on repeat.

Repetition scares me irrationally
but I have found that I could
get used to you, the same way
the sun has gotten used to
caressing the sky from dawn to
dusk with deep blue calm and
fire-red passion and should you
crash into me like an angry lightning
bolt, I will make myself into a
generator and watch you penetrate
me in a way that lights up whole
cities, and should you fall onto
me like a careful raindrop on a paved
street, I will turn myself into
a field and absorb you whole
and grow acres of beauty
in your name.

And you can tell the whole world
you’ve melted stone with your
bare hands, baby

and you can tell them to
watch it leak out of me just
for you.

Because butterflies fascinate you.

There’s something about the way
your skin spills onto mine
that undoes the tourniquet
I’ve tied right under my chest –
the one that usually stops
the insects in my stomach
from flying above the waistline
(or even developing past the
caterpillar stage). You leave me
hypnagogic, so much so that I have
only just noticed that there are
flowers blooming on the walls
of my stomach and there are
grape vines lining the bones of
my ribs and there are endless
gardens inhaling and exhaling
underneath my skin and these
butterflies you’ve helped grow,
my beauty, are flying up my esophagus
and falling like kisses on your lips and
pouring like poetry on my notebooks and
yes, every time I taste you,
and every single time I write you out,
I lose a few hundred pairs of wings,
but I don’t think
we should be alarmed.

I think you’re their mating season.