his voice is
the rasp you hear over the phone
midnight check-in calls, concerned
like the clink of wine glasses
in a lovers hotel room.
It is the silent roar of whitenoise
glistening in your subconcious
coaxing you
like a box, sealed tight.
It is the deep rolling tides
beautifully frightening
like a nightmare
you never remembered
on a winter's eve at midnight.
It is the bristeling sickness of
a rollercoaster's drop
leaving you dizzyingly confused
but utterly blissful.
It is the grainy whispers of passion
at half past forvever
the brush or his salty skin
ripples promises up your butterfly bones, darling.
Dont crush them
like a baby bird's wings.