I want to breathe you in,

Like scented words of a poem,

That fill my head with your essence,

Till there is room for nothing else.


Blame you for travelling far,

Into the realm of other worlds,

Where you give me a look, the look,

That keeps me in my head all day long.


I imagine the roughness of your fingers,

Running up my neck and into my hair,

As you pull me close like a black hole,

Up to your lips, your eyes, and your soul.


I imagine the heat your body emits,

As it glues with mine,

Then for a second we break apart,

And crush back, fiercer than a head-on collision.


I bite you, not in nibbles,

But in wide, animal gulps,

Leaving signatures on your neck,

As your tongue and teeth play upon my body.


It’s your musk, your scent,

That drives me insane,

Pheromones and hormones,

And that chemical drugged craze.


The Poem Conversation

I hear your words muffled at first,
Like a glitch in static, like a memory of a memory,
Like music heard through a closed, wooden door,
With my hand on the brass knob, I pause,
Unwilling to open, unable to let it remain closed.


For I have seen and seen,
How the music ends in a blink,
When someone enters the room.
And I have lived that silence filled with shiny words,
Your mask so rough it keeps slipping.


If you were a place, you’d be a second home,
And I guess when I shook your hand,
I must’ve let go of my jar of labels,
As I write you, to you, for you,
I find more of me than you.


In the ball room outside,
They rush to put us in a box,
We must be something, right?
Something defined.
But we aren’t or are.


We are old souls,
On similar flights,
“Did you see that cloud?”
“Yes, and I loved it too!”
An imperfect, perfect harmony.


In dusty rooms, once in a blue moon,
About shackled speech and angry hearts,
I write letters to you,
But that room is locked,
I don’t have its key,
Those corners know me more than me.
They won’t let me in, unless I need.