Like cold golden honey
gone drizzling down
her warm skin sewn bones.
Between each toe I go
nestling like water
‘round every stone.
I long to be the skeleton
that rows her forth in dreams—
‘cross the river of flame
she sets off in my brain.
Like sand grains falling from
white cliffs on the Thames,
I want to be so miniscule,
motionless in her wake.
Like sun on silver needles;
Like heat on frozen flesh;
I long to be the cinnamon
that dusts around her lips.
Like a red turtle swimming;
Like a kite on a cloudy day;
I want to be the heart
she notes is beating
like mid-west rain.
Like bright orange amber
catching fireflies and the sun,
I want to be the metaphor
that pins her down.

written on 09/27/2011 by: Matt Kane