A grid of layered thoughts.

I.

You speak in sun yellow.

I dream in wine red.

Tomorrow is whenever we don't

want to do it now.

II.

You are the second before the back arches.

I am the space between two hesitenthesitant lips.

III.

I tenderly,

unquestionably

turn you to gray,

and then we fall

like rain.

IV.

Uncertainty

arrests the senses,

butbut fear is not a crime.

V.

Romance twisted into

our pulse lines,

disguising us as

December rain.

VI.

I am rocked.

Settle me.

VII.

Give me rum

with lipstick kisses

and a girl with

sepia-drenched hair.

VII.

Love reminds me

of explosions

and waking up

around noon.

IX.

Consider us a cliche,

like the birds and the bees,

kites caught in trees,

a begger on his knees.

X.

Inspiration

returns to me

on the fire-kissed wings

of a symphony.