Last Night

My butterflies are biting me and
I’m still writing letters to the world
but I’ve run out of bottles –
   they don’t seem to come to the island anymore –
and no matter how strongly worded
I’m still just lonely and still just lonely and still,
I’m just lonely dreaming of soft arms
and dark hair to hang myself from my neck,
and the moment when I pull the trigger
of their heart
firing love into my mouth.
these dreams creep out of my teeth
with pliers pulling from ethereal eyes
until I’ve said too much … again.
I’m filled with a million desires without cure
that keep the sun from shining and the moon can’t
tell me the secrets it’s kept
from me for so many nights,
the ones where loves love
and kindness shatters walls
that were built with the blood
of angles who’ve died
to see those loves united
under pale skies, under stars
        in dust,
        from dust
        we are all stars
without shining or gleaming
in cotton blouses and Vicki’s panties,
we contemplate wool blend stockings, but,
we can’t hide the shame,
        I
           can’t
hide the shame
from soft rejections of pillow top mattress talk
eased by lazy relaxations on the rays of sunrise,
I will go to bed so that I won’t be burned
and instead, I burn in my darkness
shut in tight with commitments to never open
my eyes again, I open them to find
solitude and wasted days
without strength while all that matters is the end
or is the journey the matter that plagues our lives,
rolled in time until the wetness,
the freshness
has been absorbed by the cutting board
where my ankles were
taken off as I stood
still waiting
for except-ance
last night.