In tossed-up dreams, like a whirlpool
cascading up a sunlit storm,
memories stored in a dusty calm
and from when
the witching hour fades, you appear
still the handsome, washed-up king
from nowhere, just now tired, jaded
and a sight in the darkness, asking
for a kiss,
that I cannot give lest
you leave and I miss you in the tune
that you bring for me in which to sing.
Your beauty...prying, silent and
unseen to the waking eye arches my
sleepy sigh like a melodramatic spy...
surprise and all things nice to prize
open a rushed sweet bleed.
I am torn between loving or leaving,
measuring or tearing where
possibilities abound like a comet
poised for a dip on the majestic tip of
a loud brash crash somewhere in my