Doll made of dust

Slowly the night crawls back into his eyes
and stars leap out while he,
awake in his sleep, draws her name twice
on his sleep-scape.
Morning denudes naked souls
to reveal
she is just a doll made of dust.


Ode to kissing

If he were to kiss her now
She’d find a home right here
in this moment of him kissing her lips,
carefully drawing her closer
to whisk the winter away.
She remembers the shape of his lips
against hers’,
He does, the contour of her mouth,
the arrangement of teeth inside,
the texture and the sweetness of it.
Their kisses felt like home to them,
warm and safe.
They longed to be home now
more than anything else,
but they wouldn’t.