Empty Electronic

 

 

Flash drive oblivion

white washed

with scarlet light fever

soothing the scabs

with a salve of scratches

down

to the bone

that grinds to dust

that fades to dirt

that dances on the ash

and laughs

with full moon madness

under pulsing stars

puncturing black holes

in the empty night

while webs

of electric sirens

sing woven psalms

across the sky

---

But

 

 

I am not in love,

and so I have

no one

to whom

I can write a love song.

But her hair was lovely,

and her smile was amber honey.

But her lust was eager,

and her comfort was an even greater gift.

I cannot remember

the way electric currents

traveled from

her fingertips

to mine.

But her skin was a garden,

and her light was purely born within.

But her breath was an ocean,

and her voice was soft whispered lilacs.