like Bamboo,
strange-foreign and so
pale,
the piano keys tremble
beneath ghost fingertips.
we are
moth quiet and candle-drenched.

her arms are Bamboo
and her eyes are Atlantic,
ocean thick and eroded
with saline crusted banks-
cell-shaded cerulean.

she is
wick-thin and
wax-white, burning
without a light, so
being pretty must suffice
and I
can see her bones
draining marrow through the
leaf-skin of her veins.

I want her to be in pain,
because she looks like a lily
and she needs
my roots to subsist
while I feed
on her, all parasite like-
does that alarm you?
...but i know you're carnivorous too
(cannabalism of the mind is beauty).

her spine,
that strand of opaque Christmas
bulbs that come to life with
the slip of my thumb,
is the cord that I want to pull
while I stare at the ridges against the
satin of her bed.

She does not hunger.

I can devour what's left
between the skin and soul.

she is carved of bamboo and hollowed inside,
starving herself while I eat her sins.