I’m dreaming a hole

or maybe it’s a whole

right into the heart of you.

Straight into that place

I use to reside,

even though the windows

were always too high to see up,

and the room constantly had a draft.

I have this incurable yearning

to lease my little corner of

chaos in the after notes

of your left ventricle again.

I guess I’ve always been

one to believe in interior spaces

others don’t perceive.

-Tosha Michelle

And lately its been…


At Night I Become Exquisitely Wicked.


My mind is a landscape of hunger, a constant singularity of need. And I’ve nothing to hold you, except my dreams. I latch onto you there in some unsayable location where our bodies take inventory of each other.

You’re the perfect conjecture. I try to make your handsome face a Puritan idea, but get distracted by your Dimmesdale mouth.

You speak to me in tongues, under a ghost light, your
hands made of shadows. You lay your artifacts across my map. I address you in sighs. You follow me down, like a trail. Oh how relentless is my South.

You take up every area of my terrain, cells, lungs,.and those unmentionable spaces between decadence and devilish, contours and curves

I swallow your beauty, and breath you deep inside.
Warmth. Storm. Release. Lost in Orion’s belt and the
makings of one hell of a dream.

-Tosha Michelle

Photo courtesy of Esquire and my celebrity crush James Purefoy

JP, if you read this, don’t make it weird, unless you want to.
Hubba. Delusional, hubba.

I Wish


I wish I could shield you,
from sorrows.
From the broken candy dish,
the alarm clock
that always rings too early,
the frayed ends
of a doormat,
Donald Trump’s hair,
the economy that
never truly recovers.

I would save you from
endless bills, the sink
that always leaks.
Depression that leads
to pill filled mornings.
The inglorious path
to old age.
The trumpet’s ominous sound.

You say that’s life, baby.
Make love and music
while you can.
Praise the rhythm of living.
Follow the wind
of your heart.
Happiness starts
when we leap, when we fall.
When we infuse our
bodies with sugar and
spark, squeaky hinges
and all.

-Tosha Michelle

The photo and cat are mine.

The Soul Collects Thorns


The soul collects thorns.
The heart hoards regrets.
The mind feast on memories.
The rose profligates.
We were a mutation,
a fender bender, a war
yet some piece of you lingers
in me and I won’t give it back.
The shrapnel remains in the wound.
Think of the stain
that never comes off a shirt.
The burn mark on an empty pan,
left too long on the stove.
Just because we’ve had more than we could take
doesn’t mean we wanted too much.

-Tosha Michelle

My cover of “Love Yourself”

Double Life.


Remember when our nights mingled?
We paid our hours
in caresses and sighs.
The ache and the savor.
Our bodies a map of hunger?
We were red and blue
in equal measure.
Then we put desire away.
Photograph ourselves into today.
The clasped heart in a closed bird cage.
Clothed in yesterday’s what might have been.
Colorless. Now when people look at us
I wonder if they know
we are inside who we used to be.

-Tosha Michelle

On Longing


I long for you to choose me,
not for my silken tresses or girlish waist,
but for my soul made of ice, fire, and woman.

I long for your hands to find me
where there’s no math,
only the precision of desire.
I could dwell with you forever
without a map.

In a place where even outside, you are inside my city
And landmark aren’t mutable
and you aren’t removable.
Where we could hold something real ever after.

I long for your cloak and resolve to fall.
Come cling, devour, captures. Feel me shiver and shake.
Lead me where no one has invented goodbye
and ardor in high demand.
A place where you love me and you love me Where we savor the ache.

Let my hips, under yours, grow to fit your loneliness.
Let your arms make a soft place for me on your bed of granite.
Shadow me in yourself. Your light bending through me.
Changing me into something other than what I was.
A queen. A goddess. Let your lips tell me
you’ve been expecting me.

-Tosha Michelle