February 24, 2012
Lying atop mossy hearts with you,

looking into your quartered eyes,

I could swear that the trees are dancing,

swear that the river is demanding,

that your skin is freckled with fickle gold.

And drifting down your bloody stream,

sweater limbs coating my cracked hermit shell,

I think I might let you drink me into cups of cliché.


I like roadrunner smiles,

and frosty moon hands,

and teeth that chew on icy, finger-tipped stars.

And I’d walk off of suns with you until they stopped sprinting,

if you’d only give me green light,

crimson beaches,

lost-and-not-found tears

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