Poetry for Moths

Red lips, wine-tinted at the tips, Release words un-distilled and clement, Warm and true, full sentences that curl up to hearts, Anchoring friendships, solid, like cement. Honest and open, I'd stand by your mind in the deluge, Fight the war of your emotional refuge. I'd find your well and put a rope in. Don't you ever repent, When they say "too much",  You've only barely arrived, And I can't get enough.

Flesh-thought wreckages, gore on fine Paper. A first prize masochist, they say'd give it all up. Curse your eyes, your mouth, your mind, that I'd 180 for a touch. Anything to brush up, against you in time. It's too late to mend the cracks, To un-wrinkle the path and iron the creases, We lost our way when we bent our backs, For adventures that left us sleepless.  It's better this way, they say. But I burn and I ache, At the thought of what I've given you, And what you gave. Now everything's uncomfortable, And what used to be sacred, Is repressed, because we've faked it. Now we're uncomfortable. But I still love you after all.