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
