Lying with you in black and white,
I wonder the significance of a mouth,
hands, fingertips.
grazing skin. mere body mechanics,
or a vessel for a spiraling kinetic?
how we become weak to emotion, seemingly pathetic,
clinging to eachother
leeching off one another's need.
I stare into your eyes
unabashed. I smile.
I wonder how it is that I stare on
and be ever taken by the arrangement of your eyelashes,
the curve of your lips. My lips are wilted leaves,
cracking against the flow of your rejuvenation.
my eyes feel heavy and dry but I stare on,
alive. the shadows take away hesitation
as it shades your words
black and white, sepia, blue.
your hands of ginger, hot and sweet,
melt the frost clinging to my back
created by the rush
turning my gut
as I ache toward dark whiperings.
I want to utter the same, but I know
I can never replicate your dulcet timbre.
I sound so plain. Instead I trickle my lips across your face.
My soul cries out,
Ours are made for love antique
In an instant world.
It pains me to budge
from this bind.
I wonder how fingertips may convey
what in the light we scarcely can define.