Aug 2015
i lie in bed
with you at night
without you
my skin sees
the plates shift
under the curve
of the space
between your neck
and your jaw
hanging open
and breathing
our hands
have never touched.
and we bloom like bursting hearts
but are quiet like petals
at our funeral.
the air
and the pharomones
in the air
rush over
from where they should be
to touch you
and smell you
and live on your skin.
but you can not be touched
because
you are your own dress.
you are flamenco,
a dance of pure passion
cutting through the colors
that spill and drown the music
until the curtain is closed
the guitar has died
and the stage consumes you whole.
the audience left to wander
forgetting where they live
only picking sweet flowers
from their memory to eat.
with you at night
without you
my skin sees
the plates shift
under the curve
of the space
between your neck
and your jaw
hanging open
and breathing
our hands
have never touched.
and we bloom like bursting hearts
but are quiet like petals
at our funeral.
the air
and the pharomones
in the air
rush over
from where they should be
to touch you
and smell you
and live on your skin.
but you can not be touched
because
you are your own dress.
you are flamenco,
a dance of pure passion
cutting through the colors
that spill and drown the music
until the curtain is closed
the guitar has died
and the stage consumes you whole.
the audience left to wander
forgetting where they live
only picking sweet flowers
from their memory to eat.
Not a poem
you are your own dress
.the sound of your pleasure ripens on your tongue
and you hold it there in rythm and in chaos. It is sweet and untameable as it ripens and it rots.
it rolls off and leaks out of you in gaping rivulets, pours onto me and beads when it mixes with our sweat.
your veins and nerves try to leave your skin through any opening or pore and through the bites of your teeth to touch me and drink the humidity from our heat(taste eat)
i move closer until we climb inside of eachother
and become a specie(in specie?)
sharing only one body.
our finger tips burn wells in rows down the length of our flesh
and are met in the layers never touched by light
and move firm,
only pushed by a pulse
as we come to fruition
and our bodies and bed sheets are seemingly left behind as we are possessed by one anothers mind.
you are your own dress
.the sound of your pleasure ripens on your tongue
and you hold it there in rythm and in chaos. It is sweet and untameable as it ripens and it rots.
it rolls off and leaks out of you in gaping rivulets, pours onto me and beads when it mixes with our sweat.
your veins and nerves try to leave your skin through any opening or pore and through the bites of your teeth to touch me and drink the humidity from our heat(taste eat)
i move closer until we climb inside of eachother
and become a specie(in specie?)
sharing only one body.
our finger tips burn wells in rows down the length of our flesh
and are met in the layers never touched by light
and move firm,
only pushed by a pulse
as we come to fruition
and our bodies and bed sheets are seemingly left behind as we are possessed by one anothers mind.
