Linen & Sunshine

Scarce
All signs of life
Scattered to the dark, away from lamplight
I am well-hidden, my preference

Vacant. Vacancies revealed in the nothing.
Depleted, pretending to have used up my quota
To divide and split further
All the hairs I have torn.

I want to sparsely litter the morning with love notes
Built upon sachets of time
That were woven in secrecy
Of love, lost to my shyness

The world is incompatible
In my carefully planted garden
Dryness cracked the earth I'm in
Pinching wrinkles that repudiate intangible choices

There are gaps between my pen and its ink
Gaps between my fingers and the tubular plastic
Rolling between knuckles and nails that repulse
To a hand that has stayed consistent, quaking from the crushing quiet.

Weakening
The hearsay of past experience dithers
I want to hear the ocean, running through his heart.
As the heated day articulates the prong I seek.

The mountain in my throat daunts me
I'm buried in half-chewed gum
Unmoved by the plight of inconsequential noise.
Cussing out yesterday, scathingly.

I'm tired of my cells, my soles, myself
Igniting nothing to rouse to a stupor
No banquet of limbs to feast over-
Fucked instead, by solitude.

Peaches and cream eaten elsewhere
On white plates of linen and sunshine-lit hair
Where courage beckons the flow of intimacy
Comfortable, connected, aware...