The threads it takes
to make you.

Wind flirts with midnight,
breathes life into these
oleander-white drapes, writhing and
dancing with the hour,
toying with the floorboards beneath it's
fluid breadth.

You, in the corner
whispering songs to the wall.

I pretend
it's not
you
I love.

But how I want to take you
between my hands and work
tiny needles
through your silhouette.

(To join
this body
to that body;
mine to
yours).

I approach your corner,
dilapidated with the shadows
tattooing their contumacy upon
your supple breasts.

But oh how I wish to paint you upon myself-
weave myself into your body, a spirit
gone dry in it's dignity.

I will sew your eyes shut with my sharp breath
and flower-filled-recollection threads.
Wear you as a shadow.

And you stand alone, naked in this corner-
a plague of beauty staggered across
this wall filled with shadows;
ridden with dust.

(I want to take you and swallow you,
like honey,
choke on your impossible perfections,
indulge on your bliss
and breathe in your nudity).

But my wrists in wishing are
like a crucifixion
(of myself),
squalor in succeeding
denying in
believing.

I murmur through a floorboard
to the sunrise,
gently kissing the room's gloom
away;
'The threads it takes
to make you.'

I wish
I did
not have
to pretend
it's not
you
I love.