It was in small steps
that I learned
to love,
in small moments
where I graced
her lips,
and I know
the tender heart beats
soft and low,
but to a quiet tune
sounding every ocean and wake
that I carried
from her tired arms

You have me
terribly mistaken
I’m not
a jealous man
I would never
tie a bird down
unless
she first gave me
the ammunition
to position the ropes

The taste of heaven
is in her breath
didn’t you hear it,
didn’t you see,
when she rang
the hollow chimes
and pressed her lips
deep
into my neck

The best of moments, I find, are when she’s curled against my lap, wrapped tightly around my thighs, emitting a humble purr like that of a newborn kitten. She mews and in particular instances her spine may scoop into a forest of pleasures I dare not even speak. She’s silently written into my palms. Every stroke and line makes me bend and I’m crazy for her jawline. She’s the pearl that begs a question towards the darkest waters of my heart — a siren glistening across my sea. Arrows and daggers mean nothing against the gleam in her eye. It’s because she’s cat-eye mad, but I like her crooked that way. I’m crooked too, you know. We both love violently in shared corridors where the gushing hearts of men are just mere riddles composing against our lips. The best of moments are these, tiny fragments where I reach out to touch and she’s tangible, inescapable, and I’m clutching her between the veil of unanswered dreams.