The ways in which you hold my love aloft

are more profuse than petals on a day.

For all the time against your gentle soft,

effusive breath escapes the time I lay

against your faulty chest and speckled skin

and regard the choral of your passion -

its waltz athwart your half-moon tilted grin,

a wondrous vision I could ne'er fathom.

Thou art lovely, with penchant towards wit,

knowledge, a caring heart, and blessed song

more radiant than e'er composed, befit

you and only you to whom I belong.

Everyday I find another feature

to praise dearest love in rhymed meter.

The vision

for my apple

is crisp

red skin

protecting

the soft heart

and thorny seeds

which I can't eat

at risk of

growing

a tree inside

at risk of

not having enough

space

for both

but avoiding that

it's harmless

an apple

for a princess.

I always forget

about

the poison.

How am I

Without words

for fear of failure

Or misprint

To show you that I care

Would it be the softness

Of my bare neck

Laid upon your chest

A familiar touch

To the bottom lip

A strong glance

A long night shared

In silence

As we lay gasping in fear

Staring blankly

Into dark pasts

And even darker truths

Maybe in laughter

Or drink

Either way I pave the way

To be made a fool

For in the end

All lovers are

Maybe this will be different

A fire trail of passion

A pulling need

How am I without words

Able to communicate

Gently with someone

As amazing as you

We pushed each other,

pushed at each other,

spoke of the matter,

began to matter.

We’re a partnership,

a relationship.

     They covered the serene, plastic faces with tissue paper, placed the cardboard lid on top, and slipped the box under the bed.

     "There, Darling," she patted her daughter on the head, "we put them away."

     But the girl knew they hadn't put the dolls away; they'd murdered them.

     Wrapped in tissue paper, Sophie with the chipped eye, couldn't jump off the bed.

     Closed-up in the box, Red with the yarn hair, couldn't clap her hands.

     Shoved under the bed, Max with the pretty plaid shorts, would never slide down the stair rail again.

     That  night the girl listened for her dolls.  If they made a sound, if they rustled or whimpered, she would rescue them.  But there was only silence in her room, because the dolls were dead.  She laid in the dark, crying for them.