Six months to relive it again

Spoken words are shit -

they mean nothing to us,

like ghosts we pantomime left

over gestures like inky toe prints.

Rejections at some candle lit

party in wine country - how you

can smell the thickness of hot air -

a buzzing yellow neon.

They pump poison into him

(call it chemo, like it's your best

friend) and let the rest do its trivial

business. Cell on dead cell

to flake like skin.

He's weak, but he still has an

appetite for sex; and he moves inside

of her without condoms -

he shoots blanks now

but when he moans, he spills his poison

up into her.

For a moment they share the same pain,

like a phantom pregnancy - kiss her belly

and tickle the inside of her womb -

a rejection so hot

that it steams like honey.

The drink of them forgetting.

To make love to you - give up,

shoot up, come up for air when

the flowery nuance

of life and death becomes nothing

more then a scar of hope.

I find teardrops too beautiful to

recreate through poetry.

I understand it better when you scream it.

Plead it.

Kiss it back into life like

a teenage fingerprint.

To wake up when dawn showers

above naked breasts and bare feet,

to reflect on the tint of life and

death, and not retreat.