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we tumble in the winter-drift,
our kiss choked by an unloosed scarf
as we collide into the ocean.
sometimes you wreck your teeth against me,
snatch away my backwash
and drag me from the undertow.
and when the ache in the weather subsides,
you make me rain, a lithe lick of flame
fishing for the root in your thighs.
sometimes we spend a drunk poem under the starlight
until all our ink runs together, your lips
dressed orange under sunset
our lungs full of lust and bees
as our mouths unfurl in the heat
like an opening rose.
but sometimes I find myself here in this ghost garden,
caught in a lash of brambles trying to swallow
all my sadness.
and I can see you, sipping your thimbleful of wine
slumped behind the skin of your canvas,
but I cannot kiss you, and I cannot hold you
because you are dead.

29 Jun 18

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love it esp ghost garden with brambles
 — rivergood

I do enjoy writing about my muses. how they come and go. what face they wear any given season.
thanks for reading :)
 — jenakajoffer

Cats are great muses.  They are so empathic
 — Rossant

cats? i've never had a cat muse.  but yeah i know you do :)
 — jenakajoffer