Do you write of me as I write of you? Purple prose and yellow-throated? Sun settles on the tilting horizon and swallows my home in remorse. There is nothing to swallow though, it's not but a motion, a swift and fleeting motion that bleeds contradictions and poetic saps from edges torn raw. I become a wounded blossom, petals folding irrevocably when your warm glow inevitably shifts from my hemisphere. You are too beautiful and too good to be hidden; I know, I am selfish with your minutes; I only worry that the world will carve you into a woman not even you are familiar with.
YOU ARE READING
wildflowering
PoetryA selection of love letters, diary entries, prose, poetry and fragments of writing. "I find you where there might have once been a horizon, smudged between the esoteric press of lips and folding of hands; I find you in the immemorial gasp between b...
