fuck with a poet, get the quill.

my heart
is a dyslexic
with no
rosetta stone
just dead end
in the moments
between bated

i am the
hesitation in
your pulse
as your fingers
trace the paths
you long to
feel my tongue
lazily follow
trusting the
inherent sense
of direction
to lead to
the kind of
happy conclusion
a couple of
fresh bruises
only highlights
and i can hold
my breath for
oh so very long

it takes a
trained ear to
find the notes
of the symphony
an even more
talented maestro
to weave them
into a masterpiece
spread in teethmarks
across her
delicate flesh

i only exist
in that singular
moment as your
eyes lock mine
before your thighs
tense drawing me
into a final embrace
where we dissolve
into living fireworks
arcs of raw voltage
escaping the confines
of our battered skulls
a singular beauty
to scar all of creation

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