Thirty something; drinker of whisky; witty third thing.

you twirl your hair
because it’s the best way there is
for slowing-down time,
but your taste
is so softly
purring
and my filthy blood gathers pace—
i want to break down your walls
and tear off your clothes
in exactly that order—
pin you
down
and search your mouth
for answers.
who are you
when your hair is wrapped around my fist?
when your back
is arched,
and my mouth
is on your neck?

I bite my lip,
because no one ever tells you
kisses taste better
when you don’t see them coming—
so I break the skin,
just because I feel restless
and because it is
between me
and what I hunger for.
Faint tastes
of blood
in my mouth
move like a slow dance of nights
when
I came
(to you)
and everything you said
was a like a secret voice
boiling in the thick of my ribs.
I am somewhere inbetween time,
and the silent gaps
of your thoughts
curl to a place
where hands
of a clock
can’t reach.
I don’t know what they are called,
those spaces
that break the seconds—
but that’s when
I always think of you