breakfast in bed
the lit candle is a specter of romance: poppy painted hues against chalkboard black walls pooling breath beneath bedsheets laced with bodies, fresh morning dew drooling shadows of sanctity not even sun rise can tame, as they slowly rise, bodies stapled like two dolls sewn together crawling towards light and the big peaking window beckoning beaming leaves almost lime green. morning whisper of doves spooning earth’s silent awakening them.. they heed her call but return to night: dark sanctity of mud brown eyes locked beneath abyss-bed, sheets tangled with flamed shadow and lips. acting as moon in their world. so even fire of wick is dulled. there is no need for other cosmic force.














