the writing process

bite your lower lip
(for me)
as you scribble
down your thoughts
in a little
black book

locked up in heatstroke
(on purpose)
eyes rimmed in dark
brown, sweaty strands
cling in secret
wet places

heart pumped full
(sudden need)
blood pens hurt
to tell the truth
in pretty,
special ways

press your mouth close
(build me)
slowly these limbs
twitch to self
mobility of your
rabid thoughts

wraparound your length
(envelop you)
consummation of this
fleeting psychosis
in our little
black book.

7-20-04