If I blink I might miss the shimmer
of the moon reflected over crystal clear water.
A lone sclera, she lounges behind
a ring of hymeneal clouds.
In her all that is malformed finds its origin.
I call out to her, torn wrists upturned in supplication.
This is where we start,
pages threadbare in repetition.
My heart is a blasphemous stone,
an estuary of blood and bone fragments.
I check her corridors and deposits
but they are both empty.
It is only when she speaks
that I am made aware of her beauty.
My pockets are full of stillborn flowers
each stem cut carefully on the diagonal.
How much does it cost to fix a life
that has already expired
and how much more
to construct a new one?
If my curves were truly divine
would your lips not tremble to taste me?
If my words were sufficiently sweet
would you climb on top of me
and press your fingers deep inside
of my tear-soaked silhouette?
The things we could do
to each other are endless.