The death of light
welcomes warm embrace as
hands cross chests, burrowing under arms,
and glances meet
eye-to-eye through the onset of
impending dusk. Warm breaths
humidify the air–a warm cloak,
wrapping around noses and lips,
ear-to-ear. Bodies pull close,
assuring warmth and to not matter
the consequence of folding sheets
during the night. Faces appear as
the light from her eyes
is picked out like a match, struck,
at the end of a tunnel.
Nudged noses flick fruition,
up-to-down, left-to-right, but
there is no sulfuric satisfaction
with winter rapping upon the window.
The evaporating enlightenment
eventually dims to ashen spires as
an evading soul rises to the heavens.
I play with words and invisible objects.
A mind, a pen and a piece paper have the best relationship ever.
"Remember this--if you shut your mouth, you have your choice."
- F. Scott Fitzgerald