I write letters
to you
and hide the pages
inside old books
on white shelves.
My words,
casually fuck
to the tune of black serifs,
and the everyday hardcore of dog-eared pages.
Pinned-
their flourishes become slicked
with a passionless sweat
of another’s ink—
until I mail them…

into the fire.

You,
in your north and west
spend summer nights
sleeping naked. Cream fingers clutch
-ing cool sheets to you
in a soft bed of my thoughts.
Milky quartz slides
to-and-fro,
its silver band dances
as you catch wishes
that waft down(ward),
like feathers
from a nightly bird in magnificent flight,
and freeze
in that soft illumined light.
And so falls
the darkness like a silken hour,
clothing you with with
a brush of your skin that
feels like lovers
Loving.
You softly hum
never seven
Ever;
smiling at the colour of our
taste
and thinking of
Me.