I Do Not Write Love Poetry

but memoirs 

on your arcs 

pilings 

of tobacco 

peppered question 

marks 

morning 

it is raining 

paraoxysms

from my crown 

wordlessly

you pour for me

tempers tremors

now

dusk

I am awake again

here

another drought

I silhouette 

your body

softly 

smoke you out

Photo credits: Photo by Robert Ruggiero on Unsplash