He parted his lips—
not for a kiss, but to tell her how
she looked her most majestic
in the shadows, her naked flesh, pearled
white with spots of sweat, glowing softly
in the luminescent blue of the room,
or in the deepest, cleanest ocean,
naked limbs pretzel’ed all around
each other. Tangled; intertwined.
A place where even moonlight
couldn’t be itself, but bursting
streams of sunlight, rolled and wrapped
around celestial cratered curves, barely
permeating through her thick
navy curtains. When he caught
that soft glimmer, he wanted to
tell her how he gleaned himself
through her eyes, how for once
he admired his own face
when he found it
reflected in her deep, dark,
dilated pupils, and for what
he hoped that she herself
had seen in his. But all
she heard was, “You
look better with
the lights
off.”
poetry
A small sampling of things I've written over the years that could arguably fall under the general blanket of "Poetry." Much of the poetry you see here was originally published on Five By Five Hundred, and you can also find my stuff in upcoming issues of Asimov's magazine. (please note: this isn't actually structured into any kind of order or anything)