NATURAL DISASTERS.

My words are boomerangs,

returning to conveniently,

slap me in the face.

I meant it when I said it,

but now I mean,

something else.

Your words are little tornados,

windswept and born-

of innuendos.

The fire is white,

Bloody as stars,

Colorless as light.

I wish I had a home movie,

Of our first 2 weeks-

I'd study us in slow motion:

The childish hands,

The pale kisses,

The black outs,

The new day champagne,

The tub in the living room,

when all we had was eternity,

trembling with infancy.