Things I Want (You) to Say (to Me)

She’s on it
she’s never on me and that’s
exactly where I’d like her to be.
And I want to strum her body
like guitar strings,
because sometimes she is taut,
but the taste of her is never off-key,
and I wonder what it feels like to drown
out at sea because she pulls me under,
a symptom of her being in control.
I am always under,
her legs on either side of me
and sometimes I find myself searching her body,
the hills and the sloping valleys,
and I want to carve my image across her skin just so
she won’t forget it.
I feel myself crumbling with the absence of her,
like rockslide.
I feel myself like echo off a mountain range when her tongue
reaches its peak, when she speaks my name
and I come rushing down the side
to cause tangles in her hair
that my fingers have willingly knotted
themselves into, spider web
of decadence,
gorgeous girl,
let me speak of your essence,
let me bow in reverence.
Holy temple,
she lets my tongue slide in
and she is tasting sin
and I am tasting forgiveness
and suddenly
I feel the light of saints
and she’s taking all my stains and I
need her to know
I will sacrifice myself over and over again on her altar,
I will let her smear my blood
across each doorway just so
death won’t come knocking and I
fear she will never truly know
what it is to be loved
without being fixed;
she will never see the beauty
in her brokenness and sometimes
I find that I just want to run with this.
I picture her in forest,
after fire,
smearing her tiny feet because they have cleared out,
everything that couldn’t be felled.
Don’t let her look for me,
because the minute they lit the tinder,
I jumped up like embers,
and I found myself falling back to her fire,
not warming,
but consuming me alive.
I have never
in my entire life
craved for licks more.
I want to draw her
and then myself against her,
and we will be making Mona Lisa blush.
We will make the statues
gasp at their nakedness.
We will cause redness to their marble flesh.
I want to write songs and
and verse for her.
I want to hear my scripture
fall likes cascades from her mouth
just so each word can sink into my skin
like her nails
when she claws her name into my back
when I claw mine into her hips.
I want her to never forget this:
that I will always hold on
and I will push through
and I will never make a promise
that I cannot keep,
especially one involving eight letters,
that mixed around pronounce her name as:


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