Sunday, November 18, 2012



the way a pen hovers
over a page before
an injection of blue-black,
you sit close,
grazing your knee with mine:
track marks of elation.

your mark,
my bruised lips.
your lips, pink,
drain this stale pain from my veins
into your lungs.


your mark,
my grazed cheeks,
scrawled from scruffed bristles
to scrub away skin of dead sin.

your knee pulls away,
we sit side by side; while,
a huff of your breath
seals this sensation of

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