Open up your heart to me, oh sleeping, weeping sunset drinker. Let me love you when
lavender and blue rolled up the rugs in your room. When we danced on them.
Let me show you how to love a girl who swallows galaxies. Deep down in your tired
ghost is handfuls of all the wasps you hide and all the lies that you’ve been told.
Sometimes they leak down into the metaphors in your palm when you write but, not always. I
want to unleash them in fury, for the sake of our art
To pinch the crumpled beetle wings that fall loose.
Press and preserve them, save them in your poetry journal as well, right next to a poem
you wrote about
us on the day we met (page 11)