you tremble as if my hand
at its most tender
were a sword pressed against your breast.
and even as I bruise my lips
unholy on an angel,
I still believe there is no god.
we melt passion like chocolate
in our mouths,
and slosh wine with our toast.
blow out the candelabra’s sacred flames,
one by one by one,
as if goodnight could ever end it.
wet wings of the butterfly,
like satin rain-soaked and shrinking,
your lids flutter in a dream of flying.
while the ghost that billows summer curtains,
floats inside your door jamb,
singing lullabies as you sleep.
not every lovely eye has love’s vision.
not every stout heart has meaty chambers.
not every sweet dream has butterfly wings.
rhon drinkwater © 2008