i've always had an
appetite for strangers.
to know
the filligree of your sighs and screams,
watch as you crawl along the cement
(i can see you on all fours)...
don't call me demented.

it's unsettling, i understand, to watch
pupils meet,
holes on holes,
uncertain in their vacancy.

i could graze on your confectionary cavities.

cloying smiles slipping from glass
to skin without those candied eyes following-
you never see me.
you are floaters, with your hands sunk in pavement
to keep from hovering above stale,
corn-syrup convictions; hunched
gingerbread men with faces raw from scraping
against the floor as you scent
for ambrosia.

i won't lie. i grow excitement
in your recipes
and mine, watching you wander
through this cornfield of streets.

i plant
sodium in the curled frosting of your hair,
salty-sour in that i can't
take
that silent perfection
you leak in your wake, the
achievement of anonymousness.
i can melt you
in my palm, lick away at
your layers until the soft part bleeds,
sugar spreading down my fingers
like murderer's wine (red No.2).

i always ate my
chocolates blind.