A Way with Words

Your words go tingling down my spine; tiny dandelion wishes

and gasps. For air.

Broken tangents and quivering lips,

and pieces of my mind got lost somewhere

around the adjective. Dizzy.

Your words have claimed the breath already

and I cannot say a thing.

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Rain of the Rapture

The rain drips down your skin,

running over your hills and bends and flooding in the valleys.

Breath drifting in and out,

filling and emptying the spaces in between us.

No sunlight today to dance on your skin,

but you glimmer in the darkness,

regardless.

Pure, radiant, angel of death.