Critique my poems

Shadows cast light between tree limbs
while light casts shadows through over rippened leaves,
There’s too much life here.
The roar of bird chirping,innumerable really,
Blends into one sound
No longer beautiful and distinct,
Just
Loud

Despite what your senses will have you believe,
I never touched you.
Those were not my lips on your neck
Those were not my hands gliding down your waist
It was merely a quantum reaction,
Your cells repealing mine at the atomic level.
A scientific exchange of intentions
Producing an equal and opposite reaction.
What existed in the microcosm of space between my fingertips and yours was the friction between our energies, converting your will into life like superheated plasma discharged during fusion.

Galaxies on the verge of merging,we dance around questions and pull on each other’s souls while we pull off our clothes.
Like stars torn from their orbits, shirts and shoes are cast off into the universe that was reduced to my bedroom.
This is the stage for our performance.
A waltz that lasts eons until 2 become 1,
Revolving around a common center.
We struggle against the force that bought us together so we don’t lose our individual shape,
But it is too late.
Arms and legs have already twisted in their attempt to find balance.
Eyes are already locked in orbit.
The black holes at our centers engaged in a tug of war,
Each trying to gorge itself on the existence of the other.

I may have felt that way, once.
The sun rising and setting according to your time zone,
My moon phases synched to your menstrual cycle,
Clock hands, like time, have the tendency to keep moving,
So I can’t say I still feel that way when My hands have also moved.

F is for fiction.
Grandiose stories whispering of villains and heroes.
I played the hero in some,
The villain in others.
F is for fiction though,
Daily afternoon naps
Hours at work
Ivy league universities
Hospital trips.
I’ve got binders full of the fiction
We’ve based ourselves on

I was a writer words were my tool, more than that they were my partner finishing my sentences as though we had a link,
a bond.
connected by an umbilical chord that allowed me to express.
but see, words left me.
Now my sentences arent worth completing.

He walked, hands jammed in pockets.
He talked, hands jammed in pockets.
He showered, hands jammed in pockets.

They never told you that
he who laughs last laughs alone they never told you that
he who laughs last laughs alone they never told you that
he who laughs last laughs the hardest
cause there aint no one else to hear him

I weave miracles with syllables of ooo’s and ahhh’s pronounced between your legs.
I speak all dialects.
My perfect diction creates echoes demonstrated by your vocal chords.
I am your speech therapist.
Tongue twisters and rhyme games to help you more clearly say what you want to say - I’ve got you studdering. Oh…oh….oh!
Let me mouth it more slowly so you can articulate.

An introduction,
A few words to pass the time,
First impressions like worn out lines on an etch-a-sketch,
Subconscious decisions,
An exchange of information,
Double-speak glances like daggers thrown across a crowded room,
Maybe they will hit their mark.

Dilated pupils,
Stretching horizons eager to capture their universe,
what secrets rest in your darkness?
What troubled thoughts and weary words echo in that vast singularity?
Windows do not change size so I cannot call this the window to your soul. Perhaps it is a pit.
Edges worn where your essence has tried to escape.
Are you trying to escape now? Is that why your eyes grow larger when you see me?