Were Words

I used to write things
With smoke
Black
Sweet
Like vanilla beans
Seeds sewn
Into the delicate corners
Of the words
So that the fragrance
Made your eyes
Water
And touched
The soft places
In the back
Of your throat
An itch
That made you swallow hard
And ache to satisfy
The ghosts
My words
Fed
Your tongue
I used to write,
Write
Words
That melted
Off my hands
Dripping
Like hot wax
Chaos
Of color
And texture
On bare flesh
The bite
Of pain
Just enough
To let you know
You were alive
You were derived
From something sacred
In my eyes
The way my words
Wove
You into the tapestry
Of a time
You always dreamt of
And I,
I always meant love
To exist here
In the seconds
Where aches lessened
In the wake of
Oceans breaking waves
Against the stretching
Sands
That dropped from
Glass
That captured hours
I used to write
Away the wilt
And breathe bloom
To flowers
Hours
Spent simply inking
Evenings
Into skin
With wet tipped quills
Quivering
At my will
And wish
I used to
Do this
Brew this 

Mystic
Magic
From a place
Deep inside my mind
But I
Am tied
Against my will
Confined
To somewhere new
Unknown
I've grown
Into something of a stranger
My words
A danger to myself
I used to write things
With smoke
Black
Holes
That swallowed me whole
So I no longer know
My face
My place
My soul
I used to
But I used too
Much of all I had and so
I go
In search of new words
To do what
I used to with you
Live alight in the glow 

Of words that
Make me feel whole