The vineyard breathes with a silence too deep,
rows of vines stretch into the dusk like faded hymns,
a woman lingers among the clusters heavy with sweetness,
yet her heart listens for something more than the harvest,
the air trembling with a presence just beyond her reach.
The Lightkeeper rises where the lake meets sky,
his beam a steady arc that carves the night,
Saylour moves slowly into the reaching glow,
her breath in time with the constant pulse.
White stones cradle the tower’s rooted base,
his hands shape darkness full of patience and care,
her body learns the strength held in his touch,
drawn not bound but given willingly.
You arrive before the day has even taken shape,
your scent rising like a lover’s touch across the room,
filling every corner with a warmth that whispers my name.
Steam from your body curls in tender spirals,
a veiled invitation to come closer and linger,
to press my face into the comfort only you carry.
The First Kiss Of Morning Read More »
Poetry
Intimacy is the Thing
You can fuck someone ten times a week and never touch the thing that aches behind their eyes,
The part they flinch from when brushing their own teeth in the mirror before work,
The word they cannot say but hear in their dreams, the silence they practice so well,
And none of it makes your hand on their thigh mean more than an echo in a hallway.
Intimacy is the Thing Read More »
Poetry
Quiet Exit
They Came In The Morning, Long Before Light Touched The Fences,
Boots On Gravel, Loud But Somehow Hollow In Meaning.
A Mother Folded Her Child’s Jacket Without A Word,
The Silence Around Her Louder Than The Men In Uniform.
The Law Said Wait, The Law Said Process, But No One Stayed For It.
Even Mercy Wore A Badge And Refused To Meet Her Eyes.
Unfriendly Things
I wrote unfriendly things on diner napkins, left them where delusionists might find them.
The waitress asked if I wanted cream, but her voice cracked like morning ice.
On the TV, a senator blinked slow, mouthing rage that did not match the script.
I sipped the coffee, bitter as headlines, and stared at my reflection in the spoon.
Truth is, I hoped someone would read it and feel their throat tighten.
Ashes on the Pavement Read More »
Poetry
The Forehead
A kiss to the forehead, gentle but steady,
No words pass between them, yet all is understood,
The dominant’s presence felt in every touch.
Breakfast In Bed
He lowers down, in morning’s first light,
A kiss to start, a slow demanding delight.
His tongue dances, searching deep,
She moans as passion stirs from sleep.
He filled the tank with promises that never sparked,
held up a bottle and said the dust meant wisdom,
wore a suit like a sermon stitched from borrowed faith,
offered heaven as a refund if the product failed,
while the crowd clapped through the sound of sirens.