from my mouth (20170119)

my words are spittle
on rice paper
bleached driftwood carving lines
in the sand

you enter my blood like
like a fever and hollow me out
making flutes of my bones

i pull you close
smell your hair your skin
and still i breathe hot
on the mirror
and run a finger through it

we fall in love with ghosts
and with our ideas of ghosts
and our ideas are ghosts
and our words are their
quick and dead forms

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