a violet
does not shrink from the foot
that stepped on it
only its scent remains paraphrased...

i.

in my dream,
I called out your name
but you were sleeping

I was being chased by an unknown
assailant and then the dream
ended

perhaps love
is frightened to death

ii.

no matter how many times

I write fuck me fuck me fuck me,
I want it bad.  hard.  pulsating inside
me,
it ain't the real thing, never is.

not for you and not for me.  neither
one of us will feel anything but the slow
mo of desire or aversion, revving up
the heat of this moment we share

from my words to your eyes
from your eyes to your head
(whichever one you think with)

no matter what I write, I'll push your
button, you can be assured of that.

or not.

do you even have a choice?

iii.

inbetween the grey areas
We were beautiful once,
untamed with beauty,
and then the beast came,
stole our story away

and we were windows to each other,
sometimes fogged with disappointments,
sometimes a sunlit day through the venetian
blinds we opened when time stood still,

still longing to return the ocean of our merging,
though deep the wells where blood was drawn,
carrying the laughter of strawberries;
bouquets of jonquils to our mothers and
freshly killed venison to our fathers.

there are countless unwritten poems, like grains
of sand under small child-like feet, where violets
grow wild, inbetween shaded greys.