my words aimed down the scope as heated blankets feel more like frostbite when hurriedly fired.
what if benevolence is not an adequate source of heat when the power lines topple?
when these ideas run rampant, they are an uncontrollable current-
a social trend picking at gnarled vines of dead skin,
a pair of open eyelids constantly looking at the only two pictures of you still saved on the cloud-
the remnants of your sapphire eyelids cutting my brick femurs like passive ash.
what if my words immortalized your fluttering agility-
a glass universally unbreakable?
what if the punctuation composted your faith like fresh coffee grounds in a drought-stricken garden?
would you aim once more,
or would the circuit breaker gather dust?
the lava-blended departure of the sun is not metaphysics,
but a pinpoint target into human hearts,
both empirical and whimsical,
both light out of my ultraviolet perspective and the asphalt hurricanes of my cortex
bursting to the window,
she battled the nimbostratus with 7.4 billion souls on her solar-flaring side;
I sat idly by, desperately attempting to cool my tea and fight the demons on my shoulder.
The battle was a chainsaw pitted against a watermelon,
(is the deck stacked or
are my shoulders only temporarily
despite cinder block extremities,
my skin is still more mesh than concrete;
these summer nights were meant for picket signs
and bare feet.
as to perceive image without light,
I swam against a salty, magnificent current.
the anatomy of your enamel is a gregarious combination of sunshine and pouring sweat.
Queen Anne’s Lace is lining Prom West like a gospel chorus,
and your violets are screaming an unheard passion.
my hideous self-deprecation is a mute, static television signal in your ever-glowing radius-
a presence growing slowly and humbly, yet erupting all at once like a plentiful vegetable garden-
tomato plants, rosemary, and your Grand Canyon-eyes of brightness in full bloom.
it is here where your adjectives become potent antihistamines,
where these action words are soft fingernails on my scalp,
where your histories write textbooks of moon cycles and tiger lilies.
your palms on my chest and lips on the soft spots,
your amber irises are the key to the city.
I will dance with this infinity-
with each crack in your palm and rose in your heart,
under these golden, Northern streetlights for
the rest of time.
dreams are elusive ghosts,
but every once in awhile I will find my the dimples of my back grazing the frigid Hudson,
the treetops seeping into my grayscale skin like lotion.
it is within this reality that I may briefly forget the constant screech of your tired bones,
a relief beyond the sensation of any orgasm or chocolate cupcake.
reality is not such a simple plot-line.
rather than spin you on the dance floor like a lavender goddess,
i’m punishing my liver for existing.
this is where my naïve psyche meets the memory of your golden shoulder-bones-
where my broken, bitten-down fingers feel your unyielding flexibility and stark vulnerability like sandpaper Hallmark cards.
it is a true talent to seep the modest current without searching beyond the horizon-
for the air feels like tar without anyone to breathe it with.
this sultry tease of summer,
skin peeling off of leather and cracked heels on the dashboard,
blisters on feet panicking like geysers,
this oxygen resembling cinder-blocks
slightly more carefree –
imprints of crinkled toes never left the passenger seat.
the bags in your eyes were unmined emeralds-
my bones shared strict resemblance to anvils,
and I was too fucking high to inject these sullen thrills.
the new car smell never comes back.
my stomach is no longer a carnival at the sight of freshly opened eyelids, only a dimly-lit, mold-infested dungeon.
may I begin the Spring cleaning by sweeping your eyelashes off of the leather?
or shall I leave your grace,
along dried crumbs off screaming green dopamine,
in the creases?
passionate visions of my chest smashing through the windshield like a steel-framed freight train,
fueled by every damning item on this laundry list of self-inadequacy.
salvage yards cannot simply exist as ubiquitous rows of lost souls
there must be hope for the hot season to melt away the rose-tinted skidmarks burning my irises.