Saturday, January 23, 2010

Aiming at ghosts with sure-miss accuracy...

You've given no words aimed towards me
unless they're tied to yr ends (I feel ya lean).
My attraction's hid by yr indifferent's green...

Fascinated by yr face & the space
left for my imagination to behest ya:
empty nights in yr cigarette ember hair sheen
& poetry as a communication with no co-.
We're split so perfectly like logs,
thrown to, you, & I, fro to different Wests

I know you'll drink Sangria with me.
I know our skin is like oil & water.
I fill you up. Your cry is smoke
You empty my cup. I die, poking.

Come with me on the teeter-totter.

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