if it turned out to be a lie. But the girl
really did drink fire from a flower,
the dog did leap a chasm, days advanced
and the stars spun through our umbras
and threw their backward light upon
the bent, deniable, rusted, unaffirmable
— Dean Young, ‘Afterward’ (via contramonte)
even when our fingers sweat.
We are not ashamed to stabilise
each other when we shake.
We are not afraid to kiss until the
suction becomes too intense
to break away from.
Always biting down harder.
Testing refrain. Testing pain thresholds.
We are busy learning sign language
to minimise noise just so we can hear
the quiet yearning of the sweat,
the shaking, the suction.
Loving gently like harps, like the
fingers that pluck the harp
so nimble, so entirely exquisite
like freshly fallen frost.
Love has made us nocturnal -
the night ripe and us peeling it,
dawn unfurling in our arms.
We kiss like whiplash.
Kiss like this.
Kiss like yes.
i. The Palm
ii. René Lacoste
nicknamed “the Crocodile”
embroidered himself on
the chests of many young athletes
however did he ever kill anyone
and if so in what ways
iii. “Tennis Court”
years of standing in a foggy cul-de-sac
in the most innocent way possible:
taking off your shoes in my bedroom,
climbing under the sheets and watching
whatever’s in my Netflix queue,
barely even touching
as we talk about our days until we
fall asleep with our
clothes still on.
But another, hungrier part of me
wants you unbuttoning your shirt
before you’re completely through my door,
falling onto my bed, and
scrambling to make your fingers
unbutton my shirt faster
Your mouth shaking out
my name the entire time."
— Safe To Say A Lot’s Going Through My Head When I Think About You | Lora Mathis (via lora-mathis)
Your apple, your architect, your wonder, your wander.
Your hand that feeds, your mouth that swallows, your temptation, your tempt-in, your honey and almond, your honey and bitten lips, your bitter, your biter, your fists and your longing
Your five years down the line, your unsure and you’re unsure, and your milk, your mouth
Your alter, your ungodly church, your prayers,
your teeth, your snarl,
your eat and your eaten, your eat her out, your feast, your banquet, your unholy offering, and your sighs and her sighs,
your lion’s soft, your lion’s roar, your grumbles, your tender,
your thighs and your stretch marks,
your thighs and your cigarette burns,
your cage, your arms, your cage
your lick, your growl, your possession, your lover, your guilt, your ‘I won’t love you in the morning,’ your mistake, your love, your sweetness, your mine, you’re mine,
your leaver, your leave-her,
your temptation, your downfall
Your regret, your longing, your lover
you up against, opening
your legs with my knee. And it isn’t
leaving, the thing I keep doing
with my shoes still on, or in the car
in the driveway in broad
daylight after waving
goodbye to your neighbors
again. But my body’s a bad
dog, all dumb tongue
and hunger, down
on all fours again, tied up
outside again, coming
when called but then always refusing
to stay. I know what I’m trying
to say, but it isn’t
talking, the thing that I do with my mouth
to your ear, even though
we got the orifices right. To leave
I would have to put clothes on,
and they’d have to fit better
than all of this skin. To leave
I would have to know where to begin:
like this, pressed up
against the half-open window? Like
this, with my foot on the gas? If seeing
is believing then why isn’t touching
knowing for sure? I just want my nerves
to do the work for me, I don’t want
to have to decide. There’s blood in my hands
for fight and blood in my legs
for flight and nowhere
a sign. Believe me, I’ll leave if you just
let me touch you again for the last
— Ali Shapiro, “I Keep Trying to Leave You but the Sex Just Gets Better and Better” (via contramonte)