incarnate
All at once you're flesh and bone, spared no ache or spite, harboring all the fields of paradise and the corridors of hell. The brittle cup of undue potency fueling the wild inferno of sentience. You always reach deep into the feeling, always stretch further into the burn. My hands just manifest to your containment. My kisses just so hungry and so hard. You tilt your head, you lean your hips. I fall upon you like blessed night.
This is the spell of distance, the writhing fascination, the incantation kissed with bated breath. These thoughts I write upon the whispers that spill from your fevered lips, this ache that is so overwhelming it's answer is your all. The long lonely nights where my hands can only wander for the want of you. The thick delicious twilight that smolders in your eyes, this flavor of wishes salting each savored breath as you call my name, and I find your answers everywhere you touch.
I write it all down as if a voice could save me. I write it all down as if the words could mean the same. Letters lost to the indifferent systems and brutal efficiency return again to be recoded, my heart my only hieroglyph, your heart my Rosetta stone. These poems that come from the unweaving of this broken ruined world, these ways that linger in the literature while their purpose drains away. This is the blotted parchment and the crabbed and clumsy hand, straining to reach your touch. This is the dream that descends in shadows while you are sleeping to become my waking life.
All at once you're flesh and bone, spared no ache or spite, harboring all the fields of paradise and the corridors of hell. The brittle cup of undue potency fueling the wild inferno of sentience. You always reach deep into the feeling, always stretch further into the burn. My hands just manifest to your containment. My kisses just so hungry and so hard. You tilt your head, you lean your hips. I fall upon you like blessed night.
This is the spell of distance, the writhing fascination, the incantation kissed with bated breath. These thoughts I write upon the whispers that spill from your fevered lips, this ache that is so overwhelming it's answer is your all. The long lonely nights where my hands can only wander for the want of you. The thick delicious twilight that smolders in your eyes, this flavor of wishes salting each savored breath as you call my name, and I find your answers everywhere you touch.
I write it all down as if a voice could save me. I write it all down as if the words could mean the same. Letters lost to the indifferent systems and brutal efficiency return again to be recoded, my heart my only hieroglyph, your heart my Rosetta stone. These poems that come from the unweaving of this broken ruined world, these ways that linger in the literature while their purpose drains away. This is the blotted parchment and the crabbed and clumsy hand, straining to reach your touch. This is the dream that descends in shadows while you are sleeping to become my waking life.