summer is coming

summer is coming.
i can feel the soft ache of maturation,
when time ripens, splitting open
the sides of my lungs as i stretch
my spine back into the green of the earth,
spread my arms out and hook my fingers
beneath the edge of this moment,
breathing shallow, my eyes closed
as i swallow softly in an attempt
to retain my balance.

summer is coming.
and i will dance at her wedding,
plough her fields, kill
her babies and muck the stalls of her farm,
working on my hands and knees
until the ache in my bones fades
to an unnoticible level of pain
as the chill of the night and empty money
begin their slow invasion and start
their colonization of the expansive vision
of my future.

summer is coming,
the span of her heart counted
upon the weght of my wishes,
until i can stand her no longer,
my knuckles bloody with bleach,
my skin pale beneath the lines of my clothes
that are stained with paint,
and i no longer attempt to cry
when i feel her nails along my spine
and hear the crunch of when she removes bone.

summer is coming.
and i'll bleed my way empty into fall,
the nights stretching open
along the edge of my wounds,
the corners of the bills i've earned slowly
curling upwards on the vine,
my body now broken, my mind empty
and waiting for another year of planting
fresh ideas in the garden of academics.

Monday's Lover

Monday is forever coloured in the shade
of somebody else's kisses,
painted blue along the white bones of the cheeks,
the budding flush running along the ears,
marking the face of a child caught
in the trappings of first love.
I only remember the soft whisper
of your hand, velvet in the ever tightening grip
of my fingers,
bubbling purple in our embarrassment,
broken light scattered within the strands
of your hair, alight with a fire
neither of us really understood.
For it was Monday morning,
cobalt upon the wire edge of summer's pale wings
as they beat against the mesh
of your bedroom window,
hands clutched together, eyes closed,
door locked with the damp air
soaking through my anxiety,
both of us laid back upon
the rotting frame your bed consisted of, trapped
in the embrace of Monday's lover's
kiss.

tracing these moments

trace my fingers
over the bank of your ribs,
body carved open
along the green of the grass,
teeth smiling white
against the blue of the sky.
i need to swallow you down
this summer, your breath
hot in my ear, your hands
trailing down the length of my back
as i let myself fall open
into you, eyes wild,
skin burning
as we trace these moments
around the lake.

Strawberry

What if I could taste
the seeded coating of your lips
and watch the juices run red
against the pale surface of your skin,
tracing your heart and
counting the beats to match
the trembling of your mouth as it
opens timidly to receive a kiss
and be crushed to mine with only
a semblance of summer rationality
against the harvest season
as the fruit ripens,
waiting to be plucked and eaten.