i don’t think there are things quite like this:
quite like ocean-breathing. quite like soft
hearts and softer fingers. quite like hands
strong and hair pulled.
kiss me until i forget her name. push me
on my knees in the hallway—breathe me;
breathe me; breathe me.
i don’t think there are things quite like this:
quite like “take it off”. quite like “****, ****,
you’re—”. quite like “how much **** would
you get for this hickey?”.
give me mouth to neck to hands to back.
give me soft, give me softer, harder. give
me all teeth, all fingernails, all scratch and
no soothe.
i’m not drunk but i might as well be; you
have never been an instrument i knew how
to play well enough to perform. i’m on my
knees and then not anymore and i’m not
one for praying but i feel like this is the
moment i ask god when i turned into
something so close to an exit wound
even my mother wouldn’t recognise me
anymore.
i don’t think there are things quite like this:
quite like trembling so hard the china might
scatter on the floor like ashes. quite like
“i’m not just using you”. quite like whispers
so soft they seem to go up in smoke.
he kisses my neck and i go weak in the knees
but i feel like i would be strong enough to
withstand a hurricane like this. he kisses
my neck and his hand is on my hip and
i think about how sometimes a flood brings
more than it takes away and i think
that’s you. i think that’s you. sometimes
i wonder if i could be like that for you
too.
you see, i don’t think there are things
quite like this:
quite like shaking but still. quite like
cold but willing. quite like you.