Beaches and bed and Bedouin tents
I just wish you woke up in sands
My fingers softer than wind on you
My gaze a small wet patch of kiss on fears
Throwing your demons out to keep guard
Old friend spoke of angels on our walks
I corrected him that they flee from battles
That you and I cannot but walk in solitude
We're the two rebels who chose solitary confinement
Because we cherish our skin and soul
And it does not matter where I meet you
Or where I bid you goodbye
Just how long will our kiss last
How deep will your teeth be in my fears
How violet my fingers will be on your waist
How red will your flesh be and mine
Nothing but colors of you and pages
Of inks and coffees and wines and grass
Of the slow soft grind of your leaves
The smooth fire of my drinks
And a dessert of your lips and a desert of your fears
All this and even none of it but you.
This. This is the ideal. The you. The me.
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 12:56 PM UTC
Oh I want to write you
Exactly how I want to **** you
With no gaps left
Your margins filled
Your ruled ribs rioting
Ink and blood and moans running
Turning your navel into a well
Your clavicle into the sea
You in the world
And then hitchhike your entire being
I want to write you like I want to **** you
Fill you up, tear you down, pull you apart
Like a boy who found the first toy of the world
And doesn't know what to do with it
Except nothing and all can be done with it
So he does it. He plays, flay, slays, wails and kisses.
Leather bound journals? Loose sheets of cheap paper
I cannot afford your delusions of romance
Just the functional lust of your body
And the minimal madness I have to spare.
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 9:54 AM UTC