This is about the breath on your tongue
and the way you looked in my basement
when the world was asleep and my
fingers were wet;
because I can still smell you after
4 a.m. on a Friday night, thinking —
(****, this feeling burns like
a cigarette habit).
Your ******* are the epitome of thunder,
they creep into my skin and leave
me vibrating.

You are restless in between my legs
so I pretend this was easy like
the first time I told you I love you;
rub my hand through your hair as the breath
in my lungs quakes and evaporates
in between us.

It is cold and I am swooning in our
sweat and tears from earlier testimonies,
(I know you care, I saw it in
the way you arched your vertebrae)
and you whimper in your sleep —
waking your bones, your still-life perfection.
I could stay in this mess forever.

Come here. I want to tell you how much the moon
tilts its’ soft spine when you close
your eyes and dream of nothing but living sober.
I once saw light reflect off your shoulder
and that is when I knew you were a starving lover,
wanting someone to lick your bones if
you were ever cold in the dark.
And even in the daylight I saw your veins plump
and blue, shaking when you spoke of wisdom.

I love you more on Sundays
because you sleep in past 3 with your hair
on the top of your head and your hands
tucked in between your thighs.
I say yes — yes to everything you ask of me
because I want you to come to your senses
that it is okay to ask and want.
I want you, I ask you to stay.
Will you bend your contours and melt into me
like the moon does for the sky?
Come here and feel naked in the palm of my tongue
as I taste you without salt and sugar,
bear your heaviness onto my stomach while I
share a language with your mouth.
Come here and be fragile,
so I can feel your vulnerable.