Saturday morning,
I lie alone, buried within your bed,
white sheets stained blue, black
in the fit of hallucination
bordered along the edge of your pen,
for I am forgotten,
abandoned in the frenzy of artistic rage.
I don't think I've ever heard your voice,
just the muted, suffocating rasp
of pen against paper.
I know the sounds of vowels squeaking in fear,
curving around in soft puddles
of unknown inspiration.
I know the harsh cried of consonants,
the joyful smile of alliteration,
the secret sighs of metaphors,
imbedded within your poetry,
your madness, your joy
unbridled within the glimpse
of literary violence,
the sweet sounds of sensuality on fire
as your love is melted to the page
without even a chance
to cool.
The only whispers of a conversation
I hear from you
are painted wide within the arcs
of poetry.
There are no thoughts other than
this moment of carefully
knitted words.
