When I kiss him, I swear I can hear the clocks stop
their ticking hands and then slowly turn
backwards until suddenly I'll find myself standing
at earth's edge. My feet bear and now hardened stone,
and my clenched hands
hold teeth from grey wolves.
his lips, stutter. in slow
motion. forwards to
under these nervous skies
The rocks in the water burn darker
like his eyes. They watch me while I sleep,
while I dream.
Even the sirens cannot ****** me so gravely.
Please
Fill my lungs with his exhales
My veins with the waters
he swims in. Clench
his breath tight in my hands
do not let it spill out like the grains of sand
How could I have written 332 poems,
filed away in a little cigar box
and only two are remotely, slightly good enough?
and they all say the same thing that has haunted
me for the last two thousand years,
the way his fingers haunt my thighs
the way his lips tell clocks to rewind.
Sep 9, 2016
Sep 9, 2016 at 5:19 PM UTC
When I kiss him, I swear I can hear the clocks stop
their ticking hands and then slowly turn
backwards until suddenly I'll find myself standing
at earth's edge. My feet bear and now hardened stone,
and my clenched hands
hold teeth from grey wolves.
his lips, stutter. in slow
motion. forwards to
under these nervous skies
The rocks in the water burn darker
like his eyes. They watch me while I sleep,
while I dream.
Even the sirens cannot ****** me so gravely.
Please
Fill my lungs with his exhales
My veins with the waters
he swims in. Clench
his breath tight in my hands
do not let it spill out like the grains of sand
How could I have written 332 poems,
filed away in a little cigar box
and only two are remotely, slightly good enough?
and they all say the same thing that has haunted
me for the last two thousand years,
the way his fingers haunt my thighs
the way his lips tell clocks to rewind.
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