breathes of suicide lovers

you are making me disappear

and the written words are magic

that i can no longer reverse.

you sleep on the length of us

and we are disappointed in

its’ green. we are delusions of

us living upwards

while our backs face this

cereal sky; respond to my

trembling knees as they ask

your ground eyes for forgiveness.

i am proud to be your black rose

heart of hearts. fonts and magic in

a midsummer night’s dream while

the cement of our pasts arise with

stapled skins.

because my feet touch

yours and the path is enlightened with

our fatigued role play. we are the

same purple sky that fell in love

with the open breathes of suicide

lovers. 

the dream that you dream

scarlet boxes wrapped with 

emerald forestry

and inside papers. swollen tree

stumps help me breathe out all

the white peasants off the last

worlds. we collide into ethereal

timelines; so pack my

lap unto your

beating neckline and watch as our

thrusts become patient in your

yawns. visions of us will fade into

the abyss of our unwedded country;

i am twinkling around our witchcraft.

herbal magics coming to life and

the dream that you dream is no

longer in the sky. the dream that

you dream is no longer in just

your sky.

chardonnay papercuts

chardonnay papercuts with

memorable tears

and heartbeat veins;

i have crashed into your nerves

and there were no problems.

we were happiness and simple

was walking upwards down

these antique stairs. i will make

words bleed and science will

reopen our stage lights.

than we spoke and forgot

to listen.

thank you for making me shake

in my skin rather than lying

on your pavement eyes in

trying for our depressed. watch

these words as they come undone

in your order. i was tired in your

arms and we fell off

our bodies the moment we realized

freedom was our eyelids only vision.

we master each waiting beat 

so that sometimes

becomes every time we breathe in and out

together. we made love and hate

backwards; yet love is all

we will remember when we

turn. 

wooden architect and abused open literature

on a secret bed we

lay disclosed. we need not

to be in a constant. permanent

eyes are illusions. the soul

is never the same . the soul

is never the same. the soul

is never the same as i first

wrote that. we should wash away

the pronunciations so that we

can live in mute hearts. i want

to remember my life as

a chameleon living on

her paris stoned hair. emotional

cafes and abused open literature;

but i forgot.

in the meantime we are washed

shores by sand castles built

by a wooden architect;

we can dance this dance forever 

just as long as i get to hold your floor

with my toes.

closed tears and cardboard hands

the life of our past bring forth these

disappointed sunflower displays; 

we died young because we 

missed each other

through the sand. dusted 

wings and we

still became our enemies we still

ordered out of our chests and closed

off tears with our cardboard hands.

planted glass walls and these

leaves cannot breathe out;

they are inside these acronyms

and each robot rain drop is

magical because we touched

it while it fell.

choking my art

and there we were

all summoned theories

testing the summer walls. i am your

affair in the sky.

tedious waves crashing against

our again torsos and we are

compelled to desire this, this.

red sun sky; these branches

are choking my art.

i willed your nonexistence and

all you could sterilize was this

awful material stare. i did not

want to pollute this page with

empty water and broken bold

lines so i ignored the togetherness

of us. because i love

marrying shadows with paint;

and everything written is my thread

to your voice.

velvet songs of our ancient caves

and heirloom heights. 

forgotten silver arms

with someone who catches

my new tears before they

fall unto the rust of our ends.

resonance in a renegade renascence

era. i never knew how to be alive

in your forgotten arms but i am here

now in your forever foreign rain.

slammed with regretted distances

we returned to our silver arms.

forgotten pride and black fingernails

amber eyes and city ordained by

our breathing in and out;

that is where this is and

this is our timeless

beginning again and again

amongst these dusted

brick walled streets. 

naked

because my back will

be straightened and no remorseful

chains or ropes or jaded spots will

enter my skin’s silken canvas. for it

was this naked i was born with and with

this naked i shall return to. we are

unseen gold dusted with tomorrow’s edge

we are a real of reel just waiting to unfold.

we are fortunate in our misfortunes because

our desires are vacant eyes

are vacant eyes

are vacant eyes.

i am your soul and by this taste

i thee wed .naked and imperfect

in all my slanted blacks;

no more chains or ropes or 

jaded spots.