The Poet

To shroud me with your golden taste. I lick my lips. I lick the scent away until there is only us. I, who drowns in warmth and drinks you up. Who holds this ghost, who feels fingers slipping. I fear my fingers slipping.

We find ourselves in the highest point of misery. Colors of undone desire stretched upon us. A pressing to be undone, the temptation.

The undoing.

In my dream I am someone else. Eyes fall through me. I call to the forgotten. This balance beam, this heavy speech sifts through me.

She burnt your crest into my soul. Smudged love letters in the trash can. They wish for golden bracelets for their necks like leashes. To cut off pieces of their bodies and hand over their sanity. She watches until she drowns.

I do not own death. Our ghosts meet at night and speak. I sit and watch myself. I do not trust, I listen and I see all this pain. She cries poison. She screams.

Night time forgives, it lasts the quiet. These are things I do not understand. I cannot write as I am sinking. This fear of leaving myself behind, this fear of vanity.

If only to smother the thirst. I do not write. Three angels dance in the sullen moon shine. I sleep and dream of fire. She or they find it in fragments in the morning.