We are closer than skin.
I lie in bed and let you
sink into me by the breath.
Everything I feel belongs to us.
I worship myself to worship you.
We are a sky’s worth of stars.
We are fated, sacred, infinite.
Tell me you’re mad with love.

Face down I bite
into my pillow
as if it were
a forbidden fruit,
as if I could find
an answer
in each strangled repetition
of your name.
I am mad with love.

We are deeper than blood.
I gather your heart around me
as if it were made of pure air.
Hips writhing
I claw at the sheets
suffocating beneath
impressions of you.
There is nothing
lonely about your ache,
your weight, your soul
pressing against
my existential boundaries.
Tell me you’re mad with love.

We are more obdurate than bone.
Knuckle-deep inside myself
I am climaxing
to the conjured image
of your made-for-sin mouth.
I lick my fingers clean
and imagine
that it is your tongue
translating the taste.
I grind myself
senseless against
the mattress.
It feels too much.
You feel too much.
I am mad with love.

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2 thoughts on “Mad with Love

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