replying, of kinds

no you do not write well
why you even write what
you never see
the cliche
the dead moth's dearest
word.
but the body.
its soul
rising smiles
at your word
and its not even
great, or great
what do i call this
reaction,
this error
uncorrected;
do i let it stay
and grow on the heart's
plane or do i crush the
soul and scorn beloved
beloved, or coldly.

this need to touch

I am
tonight
filled with irreverential love
for you
and i foresee a dream
of un-understanding movement
and i touch you
which broods the entire time
and that mark uncovered
lightens secrets
and pleasure of white
severing a vow
and making another
sign with its beauty
and forgetting it there
along with the night.