I am
a lifetime of tales
& words.
Where syllables
are shared
and stuttered
in the alphabet
of her.
Her repetition
is the rising sun
counted
by empty bottles
and two million
cigarettes.
The air
is young tonight,
and average is only
a measure
for fools
in tight belts
and silk ties.
She is a lady
with forbidden dreams
and screams
whispering between
what is needed
& wanted.
No jacket
required.
She is
that moist patch,
that clings
to the thread of me.
I unravel
and become
a flowerless torch
of dying light,
as unsounded chambers
carry the burden
of her doing.
I can be found
somewhere
between
the cream & sugar,
falling
like dusted honey
from the idiot stars
of midnight.
She is
& will always be
my
repetition.
Gold trophy winner
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