I long for the poetry

of your touch

a subtle breathe

of intention

that no words

may

ever form

a broken mold

used only once

the puzzle missing

tucked into a bed

nuzzled beside

secret sincerity

whispering alive

the butterfly flutters

 set free in my 

stomach. If only

Esmeralda hadn't felt the draw

then Phoebus

wouldn't be her poison. A death so long

awaited

with no escape

the antidote

lies only within

where the poison festers

turning the life 

coursing through my veins

blue

the color of the ocean

the color of the sky

the color of goodbyes

I long for the poetry

of the simple days

when love was

nothing but a 

four letter word

uttered in secret.