Tempi · duri · per · i · vampiri

Writing for yourself, each word carelessly placed,
forgiving of trite contrivance, unworried, uncondemned,
spelling out half hopes and stories no one understands.
The voice is clear, full of half thoughts and contradictions,
the dream of a drunken woman, I wrap myself in hope
that I would never share were I not alone by a fire.
My words please me, pleasuring my heart still
uncaring of their eloquence or proper pose,
meaning locked in the reader writer's soul.
When I sing, naked by the pool, with the wind
carrying scents of the world on my lips
there is nothing but that mingling,
and that perfection in and of a moment
in the lack of any other listening
is the when I ever say I still love you.