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Description
I can fill the white
like vapor--
singe it gray
without a noticeable difference;
swell like a stratus cloud
between a words
to give them meaning they don't have.
I can sit on the heart,
so that it struggles to pump,
so that any mouth is a lever,
an utterance an adjustment
that can kill.

Love,
might become something--
something to save,
retrace in the fairy tale night.

The wine will dye the page,
not red,
but a mottled blur;

My veins will protrude
--tree vines in the midsummer's
sylvan forest--
the fine grain of the paper
will seep through her senses,
make her disappear from reality,
trace her fingers
over the intricate details
of my spine,

know that I am there,
and forget about love altogether.