a hundred charcoaled letters later

thinking of your notes,
i dream of you,

sitting next to me
with ink smeared lips,
hands caressing your pen
as if it were my breasts

i think of words, ripe,
falling from your tongue -
plucked and squished
to juice by summer fairies

and i want to preserve their taste
for scentless days

Don’t talk
or think or even breathe
you smile  – just
close your eyes, drink, trace
their patterns while they fall
to rest,

melt with the graphite of your pencil
and let the words
invading you,

splitting your bowels
with a crimson spear,
cracking you open ’til

you can’t be sure if you -
just dive, die, dance or drown

in a HundredCharcoaledFountains,
spilling your life like ink
across the barriers you have built

.


.
Anton Gourman wrote a wonderful poem, based on this one and I can highly recommend the read – you can find it here
.

and…it’s one shot wednesday again…gates open at 5pm EST ..let’s  flood the place with poetry…hope to see you there..