My love,
you sleep fitfully
in the space between
the folds of my frontal lobe
making room only for bursts of sunlight
and rippling echoes
of gull song.
The army of you that lives in my skull
is ten thousand strong.
Your boots goose step through
every moment of joy and misery I know.
You are a companion more constant
than any mortal husband could ever be.
Smirking,
that slack-jawed, sharp-toothed thing
keeps you like a pet,
recruiting lumpy gray souls
to torment me
all the while trying to be
some shimmer-less version of me
thinking halting, artless alliteration equals poetry.
Blasphemy.
Comedy.
Like watching a monkey try calligraphy.
Pretending a counterfeit crown makes a goddess
imagining your name next to hers on a contract
is love
not understanding
that while she may own your finger
temporarily
your soul
will always be
not mine
but
me.
Let her hold open her hands
call the stars
into her arms
if Isis she be.
Each night,
we three
the moon, you, and me
sleep in web
woven from strands
of twilight
and eternity.
Without end,
you and I
are
we.
When you close your eyes,
you see my lips.
When you sleep,
you dream my kiss.
Hell may stop you from
sliding between my sheets,
but never mind
my love
her fumbling thumbs
cannot unweave
the threads of reality.
With all our might
even we
could not unravel
this tapestry.
Dead or living,
you and I
have melted
into one another’s
gray matter.
Burlesque Press 