i trace the colour on my lips the way
ladies in Cosmo blow their husbands.
if we met in a life after this one,
i hope you'll dance with thunder
and sell your soul to the desert
for a chance to marry me under
a chandelier of moonlit rain, for
a chance to sti--tch my soul onto
yours with wet threads and blue
petals, crushed and plastered on
a portrait hanging in our library.
the tragedy isn't unrequited love,
it is the universe whose troops of
stars shoot mockingbirds & scoop
their blood into thick pottery jars.
it is that nobody deserves sorrow
born out of a dream they thought
they had the right to have. and
some poets in my tattered books
opened my eyes to love, Do love
a woman, love a man; love her
hard, love him deeply, and shout
out je t'aime a la folie in an old
tourist house from the top of the