Your fingertips trace lines I can feel,   even before they touch,    a language of whispers,  dark as the quiet hours    between night and first light.     Each stroke is deliberate,    a map of longing  that I follow    without question.      When your hand reaches   the place where breath breaks,  I am already...

Wrapped in a blanket of dreamsHung by a rope of nightmaresBlack scaled snaking nightmaresDrifting down streams of memoryDrowning in the pain of the truthBathing in the rays of the pastThe copper rays of the pastThe flax blue waves of...