Loads of bubble wrap piled behind
and it crackles like how a stomach
gets twisted on itself after
eons of sleep
decoding it's diaphragm to follow
the blips and beeps and bleeps
encrusted on trusting
a tight gut reaction to
wanting to touch
you.
But waiting is so difficult.
Loads of suds creep up
forming in cysts or scabs
upon stomach encasings
all slimy and orange inside
with a stretchy cover all
deep royal purple with
dark pink veins coursing
through it encoding the
rapture of film recording while
the lining inside gets all clammy
with arousal secretly clenching
this yearning and aching just
wanting to touch
you.
But waiting is so difficult.
It's a difficult, messy procedure that leaves the body exposed if it comes in contact to actual skin and flush and heat and mucus but
it is a necessary step to
colloquial banter within
the clustering of organs all
internally arguing while the
overwhelmed brain tries to keep order and the genitalia hums
all quiet in the corner
because she knows she runs
the show.
And it's funny because the brain knows he'll have to give in to
the actual world of living folks
and climb out of his bundled
fabulous fantasies in order to
make reality plausible.
And in wanting you
and in waiting
I've found myself in visceral shock
to the point where I panic and
all that's jumbled up and bound inside me seems to clench tighter.
And I fear that in waiting for your mutual touch
and I fear that in wanting to be with you so much
I'll collapse under the weight
and never get up.
Loads of words hide beneath me
resting in tubes that resemble
the small intestines in looping
nests of unbridled questions.
Will it be enough to see you
and not touch you?
Will it be enough to talk
with you and not kiss you?
Will it be enough to be chaste
and respectful when all my brain needs to do is test you?
When all my brain wants to do
is clobber you whole, chew, then swallow, spitting out bones?
Jan 20, 2017
Jan 20, 2017 at 2:19 PM UTC
Loads of bubble wrap piled behind
and it crackles like how a stomach
gets twisted on itself after
eons of sleep
decoding it's diaphragm to follow
the blips and beeps and bleeps
encrusted on trusting
a tight gut reaction to
wanting to touch
you.
But waiting is so difficult.
Loads of suds creep up
forming in cysts or scabs
upon stomach encasings
all slimy and orange inside
with a stretchy cover all
deep royal purple with
dark pink veins coursing
through it encoding the
rapture of film recording while
the lining inside gets all clammy
with arousal secretly clenching
this yearning and aching just
wanting to touch
you.
But waiting is so difficult.
It's a difficult, messy procedure that leaves the body exposed if it comes in contact to actual skin and flush and heat and mucus but
it is a necessary step to
colloquial banter within
the clustering of organs all
internally arguing while the
overwhelmed brain tries to keep order and the genitalia hums
all quiet in the corner
because she knows she runs
the show.
And it's funny because the brain knows he'll have to give in to
the actual world of living folks
and climb out of his bundled
fabulous fantasies in order to
make reality plausible.
And in wanting you
and in waiting
I've found myself in visceral shock
to the point where I panic and
all that's jumbled up and bound inside me seems to clench tighter.
And I fear that in waiting for your mutual touch
and I fear that in wanting to be with you so much
I'll collapse under the weight
and never get up.
Loads of words hide beneath me
resting in tubes that resemble
the small intestines in looping
nests of unbridled questions.
Will it be enough to see you
and not touch you?
Will it be enough to talk
with you and not kiss you?
Will it be enough to be chaste
and respectful when all my brain needs to do is test you?
When all my brain wants to do
is clobber you whole, chew, then swallow, spitting out bones?
