(no subject)
My poet wears a shirt of subtle colors
He stalks the apartment with clawed hands, a pencil stuck between his vampire’s teeth
Words don’t flow from him
They start and stop with unnatural irregularity - like an infant’s wails - like my dying thoughts
We embrace in the morning sunlight of our too-clean kitchen
And he tells me lies, stroking my hair and playing me false
I buy him paper and ink
And I don’t ask questions
He stalks the apartment with clawed hands, a pencil stuck between his vampire’s teeth
Words don’t flow from him
They start and stop with unnatural irregularity - like an infant’s wails - like my dying thoughts
We embrace in the morning sunlight of our too-clean kitchen
And he tells me lies, stroking my hair and playing me false
I buy him paper and ink
And I don’t ask questions