Tryst

thirty one.

Dance of demons on my brow

I am romeo's curled lips just --

 Still warm face

And hollow chest

You became the sweet dead boy

Sweet grown up man,

You were convincing

 But the blood moved warm behind your skin

And I climbed inside an ivy green bottle of 

Sweet grown old sin

Doctored slightly

You won't find none left in my curled stone hand.

It looks like I will be a child

A little while longer

But do the childs do this?

Do they cry out silent

Before the kiss of an assumed dead lover

Do the childs cry deep?

You were only talking in your sleep --

 That drowsy knife rested even still 

On a dream walker's tongue

When I slipped it young from 

Behind your teeth

To save it for tomorrow.