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.
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.