A pretty word; a misstep that
harbors its own luminous echo:

night falls on the rushing rocks
lathering itself up in waves
in archaic, charcoaled tongues, black
as oil but shot through with
gleaming gold veins.

they speak no formal jargon
but are instead intrenched
in tempests of their own tantric


Reaching you is like a nightmare--- wherein
e v E r y s t e p
is Vitrescent. and
Every word is just another night

revelations in the sand, in the cool
oceanic breeze, salty-cool kisses:
the flutter of your eyelashes
feathering my lips in the dark.

It was Forever in a second
and then it was gone.