Comatose Rendevous

The narrow spaces
Between typewritten letters
Are just large enough
To lay in.

You and I
Are crafters of flesh and bone;
Our skins,
Made of weathered canvas
And stitched together with
Sweet dreams on lonely nights.

Blood falls from your lips,
Staining those folded
Paper butterflies
You make so well;

I like to catch them
When they fall,

And toss them back into the air.

There are
Tiny,
Crimson-colored pieces of you
Splattered about the walls
And the inside
Of my mouth.

(You taste of melancholy,
And masked, uneasy lullabies.)

I would happily
Bear the red smears
Of your steady fingertips
If you run out of
Tattered parchment.

Allow me to
Spread my ashes
Over your ribs and
In the hollow of your throat;

You would look beautiful
Covered in faerie-tales
Made of soot.

I will sing to you as we write
A few more,
Peaceful endings
Across our
Broken bodies-

Beds of coal,
Disguised in silks,
Promise dirty wordsmiths breath
In the wake of
Sleepless morns
And restless eves.

I can see myself
Blowing melodious smoke
Under your tongue
As you
Fill my lungs
With plasma.

Perhaps now,
We can both
Go to sleep.