twelve split haired moments

Why must I write all my letters to you?
       


Your sea foam eyes, pink lips I can taste from across the room. I hoped humans weren't made of glass; that we weren't all going to hell, to perish in echoes of revelations.

I thought you knew all the answers, so I didn't have to be afraid. You were a boy with ice cubes for fingertips, who drops you hot and cold out the back of a hell bound red wagon, smiling. It's the way your face functions when caught in the wind. Inside a structure of art, there are four piss-stained corners to be used.

(shadows on your collarbones
the folds of your boxers
the waistband of your jeans).

everything
is composed of opposites
and defined by metaphors
                                 
you knew that,
didn't you?

The way your lemongrass grins tinted my life in yellow and rose. The way you make me bite my lip so hard my tears are trapped just inside my eyes. Simplicity is eventually the only way to speak.

Twelve split haired moments of pain,
you can't leave me now

It reassures me to distrust yourself, the whole wound knowing of the inside of your soul, holding bamboo spine. Why do I love your bones? They are your structures, the key to your sturdy self-assurance, the glint in your eye.

I can recognize you from the back a mile away and now I'm a thousand up in the sky, hating wishes like tomorrow's day-glow. Brown must be the softest shade there could be.

I was unknowingly conceived a sordid half year after the blistering sunset of an outcast king. He was made of silver fire and something unalterably soft. He is dawning a new nation, a million smaller parts of your master plan.

I downgraded from a 5 to a 2 in hope that you blossomed. And there are so many shades of green. Why is it that only I can name them?