Saturday, June 8, 2013

press

You leave your celebration skin on so long you begin to believe each scar. The old romance of just being you hot and fissile bubbling from another mouth. The world sags and stretches, the world sparks and gutters. There is the glow of a wishful candle in that kiss. There are all the alarm and report of what you thought were metaphors, all the storm and sweep of this fervid discovery. Every sense a-clutter with those whispered kisses, your halls suddenly all haunted with her every gasp and reach. You pressed against, the whole world as heaven.

The clock casts its shadows through the windows of your life, time an itch always demanding a scratch. How easily are these skins shrugged, set fresh and a-glisten for each languid mystery, every patient kiss. Your lips parted and pressed against that urgent ache, her name melting in your breath. The heat of each speaking the whole work of your universe, your love in lavish doses, her's the only name for love. The old poetry clinging to your shoulders like hunger clings to ribs. The old prayers bleeding out into the dry and aching wind.

You cling to her in smoke and salt, you stick to her in patina and glisten. You speak to the stretch and blush of her essence, the words running slick and hot. These gushings and this promise, the gleaning that comes with all this liquid abstraction, a shape set with tooth and tongue. The old poems rooted right through you, every word a kiss drizzled down her. The reverential as it exhausted relents. You glow with the heat and impact, being the exclamation made in her witness. You shine in skins stitched together from the light in her smile, burn in the slaughter of her love.

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