It is the take down

of words

the careful categories

that stall a cold morning.

The cab fills

with the slow exhale

of steam.

In it you draw pictures -

perhaps masks

that conceal only

the butterfly kisses

of your eyelashes

the sweet pungent slur

of your breath.

Honesty is a simple dismount,

making sense of this

is something between

every line you ever imagined.

Sometimes

I have no desire to be

a beautiful person

roses & Aphrodite

not even the promise of a lover

coming and going

with expectation

can sway me.

We have equal places

were praises do not reach.

I felt he was ceramic

the stuff vessels are made of.