Your sad grin at mornings wake. A light I don't turn off.
I watch you gather your things to leave. I swept up today, please bring more of your soil.
My nail beds, still colored with Sunday's paint.
Rough edges, getting smoother with every unplanned night.
The abrasion is good for tattered souls that got frayed by lords of lust and freckled fantasies flailing into emotional waves. The sea bottom is littered with vessels who crashed.
I stay afloat.
I see shoreline.
My craft secure.
Hot August stuck to my flesh. I smell tomorrow on your breath.
Fleshly shaved pillows imprinted on my mind.
I'm writing with wrapped up unmentionables soft as a watermelon's insides, protected by that deep, dark green rind of me.
Crack the hard shell between your teeth.
Let my seeds fall.
Liquid muse waters are shed between.
I pass out from the epiphany.
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