The sound of flesh tones takes me back to you, somehow. The flavor of your words, the smell of snow sending your skin crawling; windows pain and suffer in ice. We perch precariously hardly inside my car, bleed into night breathing delicacies into the hollow air, our hands full of each others'.
If this poem had melody, it would sound alarms. Sickly sweet thumps from drums dripping discord hard lines lead down lead down lead down Keys to carry our lock-boxed thoughts overseas, we are just unaccustomed to these breeds of attuning, intoning, singing serenades in shameless shades like ghosts of each other found only here, some haunted isle.
I hear your breath in the fog See your body like a moment Taste you bitter in recital like some copiously black coffee which your tongue taught me to love. You burn my hands, my lips, my lungs. You burn.
Syncopate and center, taking this legal pad for some sort of joy ride to break all the rules with. Warm now beneath tips of pen and ink and finger, blues bleeding; You stay, still stuck in my mind, impervious to scrawls, and immune to memory, yet found in songs of another's composition.