Tonight,
as lengths of string belie,
and angels’ hymns
retreat into
the cavity of my desires.

Your open wound,

Wherein you keep
your heart.

I watch as its flesh
beats.

And mine,
perhaps more easily accessible,
perhaps closer to the surface of the skin,
beats.
Pluck the fruit of my tenacity,
when you are ready.

Until then,
I will watch you
as a distant star,

Or as a closer, heated thing;
based on your proximity to me.

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Tonight,
as lengths of string belie,
and angels’ hymns
retreat into
the cavity of my desires.

Your open wound,

Wherein you keep
your heart.

I watch as its flesh
beats.

And mine,
perhaps more easily accessible,
perhaps closer to the surface of the skin,
beats.
Pluck the fruit of my tenacity,
when you are ready.

Until then,
I will watch you
as a distant star,

Or as a closer, heated thing;
based on your proximity to me.

This is our contingency plan:

To take the shit out of the cupboards.

To salt the earth.

To take into consideration every goddamned word.

Home leaves me
trampled by waves
of glass.

Your home,
the world I know nothing of,
keeps me fascinated.

Alone, and alone.
Two unremarkable
lives.

With glistening immortality.

This is our contingency plan:

To take the shit out of the cupboards.

To salt the earth.

To take into consideration every goddamned word.

Home leaves me
trampled by waves
of glass.

Your home,
the world I know nothing of,
keeps me fascinated.

Alone, and alone.
Two unremarkable
lives.

With glistening immortality.

Test run.

Do we have time
to deny our love?
Do we have time
to dismiss concurrency?

I throw my shit down,
on the ground,
outside your apartment.
And we throw down.

Not with fists,
nor with words.

We fuck each other over
with the calluses of the past.
And my history
with love’s affairs.

Goddamned gorgeous girl,
through and through,
charm me with your laughter,
seduce me with the pearls
of your imagination.

Test run.

Do we have time
to deny our love?
Do we have time
to dismiss concurrency?

I throw my shit down,
on the ground,
outside your apartment.
And we throw down.

Not with fists,
nor with words.

We fuck each other over
with the calluses of the past.
And my history
with love’s affairs.

Goddamned gorgeous girl,
through and through,
charm me with your laughter,
seduce me with the pearls
of your imagination.

Immobile & transcendent.

The tents of gods and men,
as prescribed in the Book of Vaginal Secretions.

Duly prophesied and
quarantined.

The game of liquor consumption
leads to war. Leads to his expulsion.

Fuck me.
With the intentions of calculated risk,
beat the fuck out of my
serial lies and my methodical ignorance.

To please me,
drop your heart
from the balcony
and trust in me
to break its fall.

Before it shatter.

Immobile & transcendent.

The tents of gods and men,
as prescribed in the Book of Vaginal Secretions.

Duly prophesied and
quarantined.

The game of liquor consumption
leads to war. Leads to his expulsion.

Fuck me.
With the intentions of calculated risk,
beat the fuck out of my
serial lies and my methodical ignorance.

To please me,
drop your heart
from the balcony
and trust in me
to break its fall.

Before it shatter.

Hands clap & I react with
non-surprise. Wholly has my heart
been identified

As the sole proprietor of my sin.
The sin of thinking what I think
concerning you.

Every pattern and every thought
has become a cloud of lust and impurity;
and my heart, a garden of desires.

But in this moment,
a pause, and reflection.

That time keeps us apart,
that fucking span of minutes and hours and fucking days.

Goddamned days.

A rift brings you closer to me,
and another. And another.

Until these texts add up
to something more substantial
than a kiss. More erotic

Than my imagination would.

Hands clap & I react with
non-surprise. Wholly has my heart
been identified

As the sole proprietor of my sin.
The sin of thinking what I think
concerning you.

Every pattern and every thought
has become a cloud of lust and impurity;
and my heart, a garden of desires.

But in this moment,
a pause, and reflection.

That time keeps us apart,
that fucking span of minutes and hours and fucking days.

Goddamned days.

A rift brings you closer to me,
and another. And another.

Until these texts add up
to something more substantial
than a kiss. More erotic

Than my imagination would.

Rift between audacity and love,
too great a silhouetted pearl
that I am thinking of; no more
meat upon bone. Just the fat.

Reduced by heat and monogamy.

And you reduce my throbbing headache
with your tongue as you transcribe your world
into short sound bytes.

And my ears beg for you.

They say, “blessed are the poor,”
but I say, “blessed am I to have you
for ten minutes to myself.”
And, “blessed is the cochlea and the drum.”
As I hear your hum.

Rift between audacity and love,
too great a silhouetted pearl
that I am thinking of; no more
meat upon bone. Just the fat.

Reduced by heat and monogamy.

And you reduce my throbbing headache
with your tongue as you transcribe your world
into short sound bytes.

And my ears beg for you.

They say, “blessed are the poor,”
but I say, “blessed am I to have you
for ten minutes to myself.”
And, “blessed is the cochlea and the drum.”
As I hear your hum.

Concrete.

Plan B.

Articulated emotional redundancy,
swarms of ecstasy threading their way
through the mire. And I
catch your hand in mine,
stroke your palm, and those perfect thumbs.

And dream of the kiss I am too afraid to grasp for.

The stakes,
my metaphor.

Negotiated peace treaty,
space heater, Charlie Brown’s
mystical getaway machine.
A spiritual encounter with aliens.

Commune;

And in paralysis’ grip,
even though I can move my tongue;
I cannot feel your lips pressed against mine.
I cannot feel your hand in mine.
I cannot express the legitimacy of my desire;

Nor can I cross the line,
between your breath and mine.

Concrete.

Plan B.

Articulated emotional redundancy,
swarms of ecstasy threading their way
through the mire. And I
catch your hand in mine,
stroke your palm, and those perfect thumbs.

And dream of the kiss I am too afraid to grasp for.

The stakes,
my metaphor.

Negotiated peace treaty,
space heater, Charlie Brown’s
mystical getaway machine.
A spiritual encounter with aliens.

Commune;

And in paralysis’ grip,
even though I can move my tongue;
I cannot feel your lips pressed against mine.
I cannot feel your hand in mine.
I cannot express the legitimacy of my desire;

Nor can I cross the line,
between your breath and mine.