Screams of insults, haltingly,
Don’t echo like the smack:
Bringing silence, full stop style.
Flesh turns red and blue and black.
And breathe, [sweet Jesus] breathe,
As carpet patterns skin
Of his knees and palms; deafened
By his heartbeat’s din.
And while writing of abuse,
She casts a [fatal] look,
As, with mouth, he cleans his fingers.
What would happen if she took
His hand in both of hers
And, with tongue, licked it clean?
She swallows hard, cheeks turn red;
Thank God thoughts can’t be seen.
And while she lusts, they wander
In meadowed knee-high grass;
Fingers entwined, newness makes
Four eyes shine, clear as glass.
Where the world is silent enough,
Censoring not needed.
But blink and there is only one,
Left lonesome and cheated.
And while he’s left without his heart---
A stranger writes of knees
Burnt by the sun; with swimming thoughts,
On blanket ‘neath the trees,
Dreaming broken lines of prose,
Thoughts from a sun-drenched heart,
He’s unaware that anyone
Falls in love with his art.
I like to play.
In other news, this is my one hundredth post. Who knew I ever had this much to say?