how humid, yes, strange
when lips collide, a blast
floods my eyes the feeling
of disaster–tsunami of thoughts
upon whom waves crash,
bells toll, frenetic trombone,
is it a call for prayer or a farewell?

thus lingers your scent on my hands
the imprint of laughter, words
whereupon copy-machines delight
and winter on dawn is lust

yes, truly desperate my eyes
to see you, when you’re so close
too near the approach of my breaking
and only cheekbones jump out–heartbeats’
wet caress on effortless trying

i sniff my arms now, up around the elbow
there you are
lotion for paper, my skin alike
impregnated feathers, i lie
but you’re not ink, you do not stain
you course through dry creases–
create rivers out of hands, eyes,
and your scent is a blanket now
your chest a head-rest
comfortable drummed words,
a happy trail down my breaths

water runs down free, blood bursts
into pebbles and rocks, sharp stalagmites
desire a cliff of multiple falls, red
and my heart threatens to escape
to pour out of my jugular and unto your neck
until drums coincide, at last
synchronicity of selves

but how to know this is true
when you let the drops run
still water, broken, dehydrated past
and you’re making me fall, fall hard
so my heart thaws, all fears melt down
drip, drip, drip
to the hard ground
for i’m leaving, yes, yet it feels
like wheels on pavement already spinning
my head to a deafening hum, a terrible burn

(Poem re-written in response to Mara Eastern’s Poetry 101 Rehab)


4 thoughts on “skin

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