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Dec 2015
You taste like Sunday morning on Friday night –
something about your body speaks to me in ways only God would understand

and I hope He does.

I wish you’d bite my lip until my mouth gave in and I no longer had words
to describe how you’re different.

Be different.

**** lingering ghosts of lovers past from existence so you’re the only name
my tongue remembers

and utters.

I want you to scratch your future down my spine so I can be –
everything you breathe for beyond these sheets.

Mark me.

I swear to die for you daily and resurrect in our screams,

just fall on your knees.
Be willing to bleed –

love –

my body
breaking for you

my blood
shed.
11.14.15
Emily K Fisk
Written by
Emily K Fisk  Buffalo; Syracuse; Boston
(Buffalo; Syracuse; Boston)   
347
   PJ Poesy, --- and ---
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