Blackberries

or blood.

Butterfly’s wings silent flutters.

I want to cup you

in my palms – 

Gulp you down like 

red wine.

Fireflies in the bushes.

Crows perched in a tree.

Bruised knees and 

scraped elbows.

You remind me of 

fever dreams at thirteen.

They grip me and refuse to 

let go.

Sand in your teeth.

Tar in my throat.

You are fairies.

Old mossy trees.

Moths with ink

dripping from their wings.

I dream of dead and decaying things.

Mice digging tunnels 

through an abandoned garden.

Brown leaves and rotting pumpkins.

Running away,

always away.

Pools of moon water – 

smashed acorns – 

a heart-shaped jar 

with something thick

and dark

oozing out of its 

cracks.

Hollow trees call out

in creaking voices.

Some old tune that crawls

under your skin – 

drudging up something

lost.

Lightning strikes above.

Heat and electricity 

palpable in the air.

Something almost tangible.

Soft dark plums

in restless hands.

Tattoos like black lace

cover your skin.

Smoke gently slides up

from between parted petal lips

in spots we can’t 

be seen.

A laugh echos

living things – 

prying open my ribs 

to allow for more room. 

Spiderwebs like silk

swiftly brushed aside.

Silver rings

and bright eyes.

Misty gray permeates – 

enveloping everything 

in its reach.