a half-asleep morning
begins to peek
between the slats of the blinds
but my mind is still
lost in a dream so vivid
that when I feel warm lips
pressed against my shoulder
I am unsure if it is the real you
or the you that is kissing me in my dream
but as your hand traces the inside of thigh
stopping when it comes to a dead end
I know it is the you that
    (like a rooster)
races to beat our alarm clock
spreading my legs
to consume your breakfast
before the sun has wiped the sleep
from her eyes
it won’t be long now
before my cries beckon her from slumber
my raspy morning voice screaming the names
of deities  
and you
and when I finally open my eyes
sweat soaked and spent
it is to the familiar sound
(not of an electronic beeping)
but the deep purr of your voice:
my god, darling
you look beautiful in the sunshine

August 30, 2021

last supper

his hungry eyes
roam my body 
like a famished traveler 
seeking nourishment 
and reprieve

before me 
he falls to his knees
desperate to devour
that which is laid before him
like a spread

and his look is carnivorous 
as I tell him:
feast on me
like I am your last supper

August 29, 2021


I never played with fire
until I fell in love
with the way you make me burn
now I am addicted
to the heat and flames that ignite
when one hand
traces the inside of my thigh
making kindling of wet lace
and two lips
slightly parted and ablaze
press against my
the whisper-presence of your tongue
barely grazing but white hot on my skin

I am combustible
set to explode
in such a way
that I will leave you covered
in embers

August 26, 2021

postcard love

you have tasted my love
in postcards
palm tree foregrounds
on blackberry peach flavored sunsets
my loopy cursive
dripping across the front
“Greetings from…”
down under

two or three sentences
about how
thanks to you
the ocean salt tastes familiar
on my tongue
the blanketing humidity
reminding me of sweat-drenched
maybe a line confessing
how I call the moon by her firsts name
when we talk about
some xo’s or an asymmetrical heart
followed by the name you moan
into the dark
squeezed into the bottom corner

but darling,
my love is more than postage stamps
and postcards

it is chapters
and volumes

my love is a fucking epic poem

April 3, 2021