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?

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.

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.

written
with
deliberate
strokes;
arrows, aimed at skies-
and scissor-sharp.
Like your name.

And this curve-
a perfect camouflage.
You bend me
to distraction
so I won’t see
(until it’s too late).

I cut my lips
on mouthfuls of your name.
My blood curls
in arcs of smiles
(and with a taste
that lingers).

Ill act as though these keystrokes are blades
Carving words upon your screen,
My fingers slash open, dancing along the cracks-
But blood betrays, as my words will.
It won’t shed.

Words full of taste, taste full of smell,
Smell full of touch, and touch full of memory,
That won’t spill for you.

You can’t read between their lines
Can’t remember their colour,
Can’t sense their magnetized need,
When all you see is drips of pooling nothing,
Mingling on an etched glass.