The streets we walk lost half their shade each morning
and even the moon can’t face these nights,
I put blood to paper
in the hope I could rent a little mercy
but you let each word dissolve
till all that’s left
are silent ways
I scream your name.
I pour my tears
like wine over an open wound
into a shattered ocean that swallows,
just the way you used to swallow me—
wanting.
The sky
is still empty,
but my eyes
are still full
of fierce limbs and the cool curve
of your thigh
and your hips will be the metronome.
Yes,
your fingers insist,
and you suffocate me
in the prettiest ways you know how,
slowly burning
up
together— a faded grey ash
on a hungry bedroom floor.
I’m a thousand miles inside you
but missing you comes in waves
and this one
hits me,
(and you hide it so well)
You’re a thousand centuries deep
and your voice still haunts me,
a thousand feet above a place
called nothing.

Sundays are for kissed freckles. I flip ahead in notebooks because I like the way blank-page endings refuse to stop. There are different ways to measure distance and we use inches to collect rain from the sky. I write words with your shoulder-blades and you rearrange the positions of my bones. We memorise the journey home because we are awake in our dreams. Hungry is a word to describe my heart when my lungs don’t get enough of you. You wear desire well, and I wear yours even better.

Innocent lips
are a dangerous habit,
and hard kisses
are an acquired taste
leaving your mouth
my favourite shade of
red (until now).
Indifference is a slow-death
that we keep speeding-up,
and destruction is a desire
that never really goes away—
we suck out all the fresh, minty marrow
from the bones of each perfect goodbye,
so we could kiss sweeter,
and break
into the thousand pieces
we hide under
every stranger’s pillowcase
like a vanished one-point-perspective.
Thoughts—
spilled open,
Bodies—
refusing to stop,
the evening star grinds the sky
like a fixed gear
but it’s our fingers
that are orbiting
towards a blue-beginning future
of a not-quite second past.
We’re two cloudless skies facing each other,
and all the printable colours of fucking.

You trip over shadows
like I trip over mouthfuls
of your name
carved into me
inch by inch,
like permanent love letters—
making me crave four letter words
you love.
More.
Wrapped,
by arms,
unwrapped,
by fingers,
you use my spine
as a garden for your lips
till all rose colours drain
like hot water,
rushing over you
and into a cold black ground,
and we both know
that one should never listen
to the flowers.
You consume my thoughts,
like I consume your body—
silencing your voice with curled fingers in your just opened mouth,
and we both know,
moonlight
is a thief,
silencing evidence of stars—
begging to be taken.
All that’s left
is a memory—
of the shape of my mouth
on your jaw,
words,
that barely followed bodies
fallen in your bedroom,
and eyes
that always give me
a
-way.

There’s no cure for a memory
and my wants burn just the same,
your touch is a lesson of patience,
you trace outlines on watercolour skin where a woman
got into my blood—
crackling sounds exiting fingers, are
the torments we are trade
in long afternoons of hands.
You wear questions
on your lips,
I shut your mouth with mine—
the replies are unforgettable,
signed in deepest-cherry colours of wet.
Naked,
to the bone,
our bodies move
like an instinct,
shedding all doubts like particles of sweat.
Salty liquids vaporise
to magnesium-ribbon ash,
licking our lips like a burned sugar future.
We started this fire,
for a reason,
and Me and You,
and the coming night
can’t turn away from each other—

Our fucking is a perfect unison,
like twinned bones of the wrist.

The truth is I love things that don’t matter, like the hollows where skin meets hip bones the truth is rainbows are just a type of light that has been cut open the truth is all your ex-lovers look the same in the dark the truth is there are too many hours in a day when I don’t hear from you, and it was the same number as yesterday the truth is lately my silences are mostly love letters, but blank pages look so fucking beautiful when you hold them.

Sometimes, you hear your words catch in my throat, but you never see your thoughts glued between my ribs until I break curved bones to get them out. One by one, things are lost, repeatedly. We grind unused feelings into our coffee, and drink them, black. Soft lips need hard kisses, and our mouths intersect in a laced haze of white lust. It’s the perfect alibi when we’re looking for the way out.