I reach out to you on tiptoe,
unwrapping your multifarious scarfs,
the miles of scars which tether us
in the place of ancestral roots.
Your muffled voice spills into my mouth,
sweet from a harvest of honeysuckles.
I can almost hear your heart
ricocheting against your ribs,
delible as the feathers on a butterfly’s wings.
I cannot affix my desire to any particular attribute
your alabaster bones, your slippery grin,
the way your eyes cannibalize with anticipation.
Our love simmers but it does not burn itself to ash.
The bitter, unpalatable ash of opportunistic love
cannot preserve the hearts it wrongly ingests.
Every little thing recognized or approved pales in isolation.
I would not exist if you were not here to occupy me.
I slide my legs from your shoulders and we settle hip to hip,
whatever the position the sentiment still sways us.
The thunder in you draws out the human in me.
We have endured not because we were coerced
but because every touch is to us an act of worship.
Give me your tumulus, your ashes, your sullen breath
and I will take them into myself without hesitation.
Ran out of time today.