Kiss my lips
raw;
fuck me
into silence–
make me bite my lip
so I taste
mouthfuls of crushed blood
swimming inside me
for days.
Being close to you
is never about proximity–
it is about depth,
and that is the way
your mouth
collapses into mine. (And your hands.)
You love a smile
that’s an exit wound
and there were days when your kisses developed the habit of rusting on.
I can always tell by the look of a stain,
when it won’t come
out.

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.