Within every bird, there is a song.
But, yours seems to be missing.
Figment of my little imagination, and I am deluded,
But, the waves crest as your breasts,
And the tides recede along your abdomen,
So I go, to place my hands like the sculptor’s way
To make sure a woman need not feel dismay.
Your song shall be saved
By my glorious appetite.
I go to make that desert, to set that dryness
Upon thy empty form.
Because, you deserve the hoarseness of a voice
Deserved, after every pain I’ve swallowed,
So you shall, too.
I sculpt, and I weave
Blankets out of your porcelain flesh.
Where blue from rocky slopes, caught up in currents
By the waves of a tempest to an ocean
And thus, comes the dryness.
By the few places we kiss, the fewer places we touch,
You are dead in arms, and have swallowed a peninsula,
Made by me, in this sordid experiment.