We would exchange contents of our souls,
open up my hips like you would a hole,
where you'll pour your sadness into;
and cover all over my grief,
like I'd spill my anxiety,
then glaze over your anguish.
So, we'll never have ***, I think.
We would rip each other's skin like ribs,
tear through our necks,
leave them red with bites and nibs;
or maybe it’ll be a slow night and we’ll read,
and maybe you’ll tell me I am who you need.
So we’ll never have ***, I believe.
I would tell you how sometimes slow hurts,
and sometimes,
it’s the absence of fire that burns.
I would tell you how it doesn’t make sense,
and sometimes,
what makes it present is the absence itself.
So we’ll never have ***, I bet.
Maybe you could tell me about these instead;
how you don’t know when it happened.
or if you could, tell me at what moment?
Maybe tell me that I'm always in your head;
or wishing I'm giving you one instead.
And that you don’t know how it started.
But it’s starting now isn’t?
It’s brewing now at this very moment,
or even way before.
Come closer, tell me how
you’ve been waiting for this very moment.
Whisper how you want more.
Come to me, my wave, I am your shore.
Tell me in any language you want; there's not a single one I wouldn't understand.
