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.
