Pale Love

letting out a soft moan, she
brings chills to my skin
and paralyzes my bones

her icy breath caresses the nape
of my neck, she is nostalgia
dark hair and pale eyes
her lips whisper my name

my nose blushes in shades
of red

my fingertips ache
in shades of blue, I meet her

soft, pale body with the
harshness of mine and
once again, tangled together,
she has come–

my love, December.

La Petite Mort

my lover is arcane
for, he only speaks in tongues
he breathes cold, cadaverous air
to fill my empty lungs

Latin chants
over freshly turned earth
he comes creeping in the night
when not another soul is heard

beneath a new moon sky
and in the howling wind
he quietly stalks
aching to nourish his sins

cemeteries are always silent
for, death brings with him a certain hush
you can barely hear his ghostly moans,
not even the roses blush

my lover is strange
for, he never makes a sound
but the pale look in his eyes
can make my dead heart pound

his voice sends gentle waves into the air
they resonate loud around my head
just long enough to
bring me back from the dead

aural necromantics,
we dance beneath decade-old graves
to the cadence of collecting memories
something my body yearns for and craves

again and again,
he brings me back to life
as our lascivious scene fades
into black and white

and when we are together,
I am but frail bones beneath his grip
there is little else I yearn for as
his bony fingers trace my hips

draped in black lace
between silk coffin sheets
my lover and I breathe
one foot apart and six feet deep

eternally I will lie
here in his stone-cold clutch
he is my graveyard baby,
my skeleton boy crush

 

 

Alibi

You say one thing
with your lips
but your eyes
speak another narrative

they are much more captivating

The air is warm
and heavy
the sky is dark
and ready

I can see you in the storm

What is this desire
to dance
on the line of disaster?

Memory Mines

cemeteries are always silent,
there is a certain hush that
arrives in death

I remember
you through my sense of
sound

the waves in the air
vibrate in my head just
long enough to send me back
to that night with you:

séance.

aural necromancy,
let us dance to the cadence
of collecting memories

Thunderstorm/Forestfire

I Like The Way You Are
Both A Thunderstorm And
A Forest Fire At The Same Time
there is a storm of quiet
rain in your eyes
from a distance it is
streaks of heavy purple
on a mountain top
blue glaze that says, “hello
come along, my friend”
something warm in the
invitation, orange and brown
pulls you into frame
forests, acres, burned swiftly
in a single act of passion
flames lick everything
they can taste
to rebuild upon
black flats of
ash

Prayers From Dust

doubled over
sharing whispers with the tiles
tasting the sand between shakes
the only way my body knows
how to beg for help
is through bruises

knees fold over one another
crashing down, syncope
sink to the stone floor

thousands of miles away
from my temple, double down
prayers through muddy tears
between breaths, my body
begs with what little
it has left: take me instead