a Saturday morning, dewy skies and September, an arm around my waist, a leg between my legs like papers haphazardly folded together then smoothed, coming off clumsy. My hair a black lake on the pillows and your fingers palm fronds on my hips. Outside there's a city kissing your window as you press your body to mine, still lost in sleep, slowly brushing back branches to wakefulness.
Do imagined worlds carry transitive properties.
i mean are you replaceable
keep everything else, all adjectives remain in place, just give him a different face; perhaps it won't sting as much, if at all. So on my hips, someone else's fingers, and by my body someone else's body--but this room still belongs to you. So maybe change the setting, change the day, change the situation. I am waking up somewhere else. Next to someone else. It is a different morning in a different place. Perhaps here it is three am and the city is quiet in the way cities buzz, and perhaps instead of space, between us there is sincerity. And we wake only to nestle back into sleep.
A canyon, once perhaps a river of sorts, between us. We're standing on opposite banks, looking down at what remains, which is nothing, trying to remember what was, and seeing nothing, or something singing faintly, humming perhaps. Someone was supposed to jump in, rappel down, wade or swim to the other side, walk, journey. But we waited too long and now all we have is empty space.
i mean are you replaceable
keep everything else, all adjectives remain in place, just give him a different face; perhaps it won't sting as much, if at all. So on my hips, someone else's fingers, and by my body someone else's body--but this room still belongs to you. So maybe change the setting, change the day, change the situation. I am waking up somewhere else. Next to someone else. It is a different morning in a different place. Perhaps here it is three am and the city is quiet in the way cities buzz, and perhaps instead of space, between us there is sincerity. And we wake only to nestle back into sleep.
A canyon, once perhaps a river of sorts, between us. We're standing on opposite banks, looking down at what remains, which is nothing, trying to remember what was, and seeing nothing, or something singing faintly, humming perhaps. Someone was supposed to jump in, rappel down, wade or swim to the other side, walk, journey. But we waited too long and now all we have is empty space.
There is nothing here that will last.
These graceless contradictions
A place where when you look at me, it is with devotion and not just hunger. Where the palms of your hands are hot with the burns of my fingers and not in secret but in every place. Where the black of my eyes and all my dirty heart are worth the madness of your mother and her mother and their seven hells.
There is perhaps a space in time when your name to me will be a good decision and not just a shot in the dark or a howl of pain.
These graceless contradictions
A place where when you look at me, it is with devotion and not just hunger. Where the palms of your hands are hot with the burns of my fingers and not in secret but in every place. Where the black of my eyes and all my dirty heart are worth the madness of your mother and her mother and their seven hells.
There is perhaps a space in time when your name to me will be a good decision and not just a shot in the dark or a howl of pain.
