I watch you sleep, wondering
where you end and I begin
where you stop telling and i stop tearing
we could call it a day and i would enscorcell another into my dark and fluttery web
black silky tresses,
jutting bones
older, younger, stupider, I dont really care
I just want you
our world might end tomorrow
and I want to remember it
with you, in our beach hut with a blue painting on the wall
a dancing something
lofty, willowy, silent when the sun comes up
aaaah the soft romantic, no the tangled witch I danced with that winter
found half dead
yelled "Caitlin, Caitlin, wake up!!!"
No, we are light and full of hope she says
sotto voce, to no one in particular
like a summery breath of watermellon, right?! Is that what Boy tastes like these days? It is how you taste.
No crimson drops and pale skin in the dark forest
where you love to wrap yourself up
despite the oatmeal and vanilla
that resonates in your stories
the gentle wood-chopper.
Don't Open The Door.
