22/365 : at the flea

cascading royal rugs 
race like a waterfall of blood 
unafraid to gush 
and collapse 
on the flea market floor

and your hand's on my leg 
in the stream of sunlight 
that's flooding my eyes, 
and my eyes can't see 
anything ahead, and ahead 
there's no end in sight.

my hand strokes deer skull sensuality, 
and everything's anything but dead. 

kindness is so alive.
I don't care that you don't see me loving you 
from the other side of the room. 

a pool of precious jewels 
lay between us.
I slip free from my cream lace slip, 
naked skin, paper thin.
I swim through turquoise and silver 
snake skin shimmering like an 
ocean of trust. 

I will not count this as a loss. 
nothing died here. 
I don't care if you can smell the ashes. 
I can feel the love pulsing 
at the warm tips of my fingers 
on the cool shave 
of your honest face,

and I am not sorry 
for sunlight 
or sitting down to write 
in the middle of the end 
of everything that's beginning to grow again.