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—
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.
your fingers insist,
and you suffocate me
in the prettiest ways you know how,
slowly burning
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.

Kiss my lips
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

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.
spilled open,
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.