crisscross

ravishing in sunlight.

in my breakaway,

in climbing vines

roots embedded in the crevices

of old worn stone

notice how they cling as they grow?

and suddenly i am just an infant 

Your body, the cathedral, in which I am a nun. 
I miss how your skin feels, the stained glass sorcery
that I am still decoding.
Senseless worship, I am blinded by my belief in you.

They harvested my heart, left with my

Here,
In the room of my life
Lay weathered books,
Snake-grasped phone cords,
And photos  that stand next to their
Would-be frame if we ever actually finished 
Redecorating. 

Sometimes I lie on the bathroom tile when 
the apartment is too hot or the days too long. 
I don’t claim to be a cynic, but I could be. 
Bury me in Greece, before I have to outlive my friends

I believe in racket filled households, 
pots and pan residue.
I believe in, not only, but worship your
wandering fingers and destructive curiosity.
I believe in raunchy outfits, in the
slut’s wardrobe (all hail Paris Hilton).

graced by the illusive muse,
notes dripping from his tongue.
reeking of The Modern Heartbreak,
a knife twisted in his lung.

now, he’s crying out melodies,
words of the wise,
watering young eardrums,
poems in disguise.