[so.
I have strawberry patch hair
even though I prefer cherry
flavors; there is honey mixed
in, exotic and waiting to curl
around your upper lip.
I like dark places with soft
coverings and whispers of you
tickling the pads of my fingers.
I am the lush undergrowth
that spreads to the canopy and
covers the sunlight. I am wet
and tyedyecrayonful, openly,
and my mouth is the most potent
of all seven of my senses.
I think words are a simple form
of art, yet infinity has no touch.
I have a name or two but
I can be identified by the way
my heart expresses lifelines,
if you listen to the windchimes
it collects on a dusted wooden
shelf.]
[after I die, I'll have
no use for heaven.]
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