If I Go, I'm Goin

I read a sentence. It’s a weird sentence.

Carve the world because you craved.

I read a sentence and it slowly sprouted.

Silent as prey, your claws dug into the ground.

This is how white folks dine my dear,

I swear it.

Break this sweet meat,
drink the caffeinated green tea.

These bread crusts adorned with horns,

a taste I must acquire.

I called my house from down the street.

Just checking on the empty situation.

As weeks then months pass,

your life beyond mine turns animistic.

You throw trees over your shoulder,

drudge into the rain with claws like becks.

You spend money on shaving equipment, 

The dermatologist told you to come back Monday.

You have human eyes in there somewhere. 

How long have I been gone this time?

I dream one night you stand in my bedroom doorway,

the hallway light behind you so bright I think you come from light itself: 

Come in.

I'm fine where I am.

Why are you here? 

I'll make love to you right now.

Here? 

Yes here and here. 

What happened to your coat? 

Puddles tap impatiently on the rug, you look like the ocean soaked for days.

You plague me during the day, I say, And now here where I sleep. 

You start walking towards me. 
What do you want from me, I say.

You are as if fog light standing at the end of a bridge gilding lush greenly vines that topple over your eyes.

Do you even know my name, I say.

And before I can ask another question the light behind you floods so bright 

 I don't know how far your lips are to mine until you finally speak.