Love Notes From My Sleepy Stalker
I am not lacking in words
Where physical distance comes between these yearnings
The touch of your skin to my own like scattered picture film,
Slow drips of acetone sweat-pool rippling quick, to silver flame
Here I am, tracing the birth of a soliloquy in the composition of your face,
I am joyful as the wordsmith -- pen at hand to a curled fist.
You light my cigarettes and so soon our celluloid skin does split
My conflagration does veer to sear the road with a sharp left
To skin my knees on every paved path travelled,
An overexposure of the ears to fire and cautionary tales, eventual deafness;
Everything stings, I love it, and my muse I amuse you.
I love you, it is mean what you do, and even in sleep I am not safe --
Reality is still unknown in dreamy darkness,
This particular cause to burn is an earned flaw
Yet sometimes I find that if I close my eyes
You can learn to love me, damn it -- in due time.
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