Apr 2018
Skin on skin, fingers intertwined, lips crashing like waves on shore,
forgetfulness in each and every action as they dance
in this basement with a hole in the drywall and the scent of stoners in the air.
Her lips are smooth and warm, his are cold and… and harder somehow.
His lips are magic, soft bruises ****** onto swan necks,
Hers are fiery drumbeats and the backbone of bass,
hers are magical kisses at 4 in the morning that feel like flying through the sky,
freedom even greater than the birds carry into dawn.
If light had a feeling, it would be these drink-fueled lips and their dance.
Her skin is coated in memories.
It dresses itself in scars,
clothes the too-much of it she has in worry.
It is her armour, and it is her weakness.
His skin is clothed in Nike, pale abs hidden by a swoosh,
a little baby scar just underneath his left pectoral muscle from falling out of a tree at age 6.
His skin does not care about her scars, nor does it notice its own markings,
his skin wants to consume her like his lips already do.
He does not care if she wears armor or pain.
She lets it,
He takes her away.
the dancing becomes something more than dancing,
moans float through *****-coated tongues,
originating in ****-smoke polluted lungs.
The song fades from earshot, even though the speakers still shake with the drums.
They came to this uneven carpet and hole in drywalled-room to grieve,
but distraction feels so, so very good, certainly better than their memories,
and one dance turns to 3, turns to too many,
their pain is buried underneath the blanket laid out on the floor.
The album ends and the speakers fuzz with feedback,
but she sleeps as if she is dead--
and death is what brought them here--
he rolls over her to fix it with a flick of the wrist.
The music begins again,
but it is gentler, softer, now.
A lullaby.
And he follows her into the ever-changing landscape of dreaming,
her pink-tinted chest as his pillow,
hand resting on the edge of the worn,
black blanket that covers her stomach to mid-calf.
Their skins rest, and the pain fades away just as the stink of sweat and smoke floats away,
lost in some other part of this endless, liquid-dark night.
forgetfulness in each and every action as they dance
in this basement with a hole in the drywall and the scent of stoners in the air.
Her lips are smooth and warm, his are cold and… and harder somehow.
His lips are magic, soft bruises ****** onto swan necks,
Hers are fiery drumbeats and the backbone of bass,
hers are magical kisses at 4 in the morning that feel like flying through the sky,
freedom even greater than the birds carry into dawn.
If light had a feeling, it would be these drink-fueled lips and their dance.
Her skin is coated in memories.
It dresses itself in scars,
clothes the too-much of it she has in worry.
It is her armour, and it is her weakness.
His skin is clothed in Nike, pale abs hidden by a swoosh,
a little baby scar just underneath his left pectoral muscle from falling out of a tree at age 6.
His skin does not care about her scars, nor does it notice its own markings,
his skin wants to consume her like his lips already do.
He does not care if she wears armor or pain.
She lets it,
He takes her away.
the dancing becomes something more than dancing,
moans float through *****-coated tongues,
originating in ****-smoke polluted lungs.
The song fades from earshot, even though the speakers still shake with the drums.
They came to this uneven carpet and hole in drywalled-room to grieve,
but distraction feels so, so very good, certainly better than their memories,
and one dance turns to 3, turns to too many,
their pain is buried underneath the blanket laid out on the floor.
The album ends and the speakers fuzz with feedback,
but she sleeps as if she is dead--
and death is what brought them here--
he rolls over her to fix it with a flick of the wrist.
The music begins again,
but it is gentler, softer, now.
A lullaby.
And he follows her into the ever-changing landscape of dreaming,
her pink-tinted chest as his pillow,
hand resting on the edge of the worn,
black blanket that covers her stomach to mid-calf.
Their skins rest, and the pain fades away just as the stink of sweat and smoke floats away,
lost in some other part of this endless, liquid-dark night.
