Broken Spine

I’d hope that you’d lick me back across the pages, scrape your teeth along the base of my spine, words floating past the muscles of your shoulders, ink spotted upon your lips in the delirium of this long and inspiration less night.

            

I’m always waiting for your hands around my throat, warm in the memory of this silence, your voice muted against the heavy pressing petals of the sleep that floods this night. And I stumble, cross and scramble through the dark, sliding out across the floor, blankets tangled, pencil, paper, anything I can find within my grasp, naked in the stinging need not to let it go.

           

Because you wake me at inopportune moments of the night, in the back alleys, the corridors and emptiness found in education, the silent seconds beside the traffic lurching forward, your hands tangled in my hair, my body heavy, my fingers burning and your voice a whisper in my ear that I’m about to lose.

            

I am about to lose it.

            

I’m scared of this moment, for I need to be blindsided, pressed against the shelving, trapped between your body and the wood, your lips a feather across mine to muffle the cry. For I am nothing without you, the gravitational pull you carry, the smirk of a smile stretched tight across your teeth, ready to bite, smash me forward, burry me under the grave of my own talent. You are always ready to kill, shred apart what ever love I give you, in an attempt to show you care.

            

Still, I’ll take what I can get, the cold traces of impact you leave trailing across my body, the realization that I can no longer escape, no longer go back to what we were before.

            

For I was your lover long before we knew it.