Writings

(1) The Massage

The smell of tobacco
on her breath,
A chill in the air.

The heat in my bones.

And dream of my
father laughing at
beavers.


(2)

I sit in quiet. The vibrations
of the ceiling fan like the
beating of my heart.

Occasionally the click of the
Zippo, the low burning of
tobacco fills my ears, taking
away the sound of the fan,
my heart.

The swirling to extinction of
the smoke like the fire of
our time together.


(3)

cathartic self spells
cleansing the soul of damage -
open to freedom.


(4)

contrast of silky
cream and dry dark chocolate
erotic to see