I want you to run from my disease
so you can’t watch me fall into the
ashes of my self-lain grave.

This romantic idea flutters
at the edges of my mind
as a venomous moth nears blistering static.

The way the letters string into dreams
is beautiful, the taste of flower pedals
welcomes your eyes.

What if I couldn’t write?
Would you stay to listen for
my festering contradictions?

I want you to sit with me as I decay.
Perhaps when I wither into weeping willows
you can picnic under my watch,
dropping breadcrumbs of lost memories.

I will complement your warm sundress
with the cool green of patronage.
Birds will serenade the slight breeze
and enhance the beauty of our great hill.

This fanciful visual drains
into my irises and overflows
past my eyelashes,
falling to my fingerprints with wonder.

I want us both to be equally
competent breathers.
Inhaling and releasing particles of prosperity
in steady glides of euphoria.

The soft scents fill our pores
begging to rival the contours
of our voices.

My desire is useless,
for I only lie in written words,
yearning to scream the truth
in gratifying resonance.
Show me I can trust you and I will
welcome your sigh.

I’ll never write about you again,
until I do.