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?

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.

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.

Kisses at midnight
taste like the future,
so I count your freckles
as slow as I can—
our bodies become
only shadows
circling white walls,
their minor refusals
to ever fully untangle.
Our memories form
like a frosted glass,
our collar bones,
inviting more—
our flesh, whispers
in bites—
time
is such a lonely lock—
our elaborate fingers
are perfectly shaped
silver keys.

Skin was just a fashion we wore
on icicles for bones,
dripping
with anticipation;

I asked you five times a day
to lie to me
because it takes more time
than the truth ever could,
and time
is exactly how
we ate our way
inside.
We raged
like the ocean,
and fucked
like we were drowning;
we built each other up
so we could break each other
more—
we played our games,
a fifty-two-pickup
of scatted sheets and tangled legs,
and too too many pieces
to ever hold.
I crushed The Sun
in a casual lust
and just because
I could,
and we made those nights
a blank ink
with whatever poured out.
Closed-mouth brushes,
open-mouth dip pens—
prowling kisses:
handwritten lingering strokes,
stained our lips in triplicate,
and bodies wore the carbon-copy marks.
Your voice
is a liquid seduction, and
Your eyes
are a guillotine—
you made enough cuts,
one,
and I was the trigger.
Love
and hate
only differ in dosage;
promises
and threats
share an unmade bed
and we both know
the pragmatic hope
of disposable intimacy,
and sex that washes off—
just not today.

Our arched bones
intersect
in a casual erotica,
and our fingers
know
all the ways of
wanting—
words crawl
from my open mouth
back to a memory
of tangled arms
and crisp linen Sundays
we know well—
breathless gasps
leak out,
and sparks
soak back in
to patches of
dripping
wet
skin
of me and you.
Inhaled kisses
and exhaled moans
are the best kinds
of goodbyes,
and filament hearts
burn white
to keep us warm
in a breathed out smoke
that made our love
a colour
of gone
grey.

My breath
is a scream
and your fingers
are a
tactile hallucination
tracing outlines of secrets
hidden in my curved pulse.
I count my shivers
backwards,
each
one-
by-
one,
waiting
to tell you,
I love you—
but
words always taste better
in your just-open mouth
and we both know
your eyes are turning
a new colour
of stone
cold.
Violent delights
have violent
ends,
and ours are choked
limp
and lost—
with you,
even the sex
turned into a sweat-shimmering battle
for extinction
as the bruises
find a way back in.
Honey-sweet soft
kisses
are no match
for lips
stained with every touch
of your skin,
the begging for more,
the hot blood thickening,
the slash marks
of a liquid whip on pale skin—
white on white,
like the thoughts
you don’t write
on letters
you won’t send.
Torn hearts
and broken minds
are your favourite lingerie
and to you
love
is a thief
who only ever
takes
what you wish you never had
times three.