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WaistLands

I suffer from your beauty.

Even the square curve of your knee,

hard and compact like your voice,

is a perfect crevice, shape of sunlight for these desert-frozen fingers, a clasp of

jewel knuckles yearning. I would run hands along solid spaces of

your thigh, soften,

I would harden myself

become turgid with inaction

I would wave undulating fragile insides you see not,

paint stroke the length of you, tall a distance from my seat to yours.

I would then let tongue, raspy cotton, old and unwashed,

blossom languages, speak

words inherent. Move, a

diaspora towards pleasure higher, further up the mountain trail of

your skin,

finger feminine me leads lips to sacrosanct intersections of your edges,

yielding muscles that could heat and

grow a bridge between souls, two laps sitting across a seat from this secret, naked.

Contract and relax, a breath

of nature in every reflex, you breathe, eyes

away, burying tempests could possibly rampage at the core of you.

A universe hidden in this motion, I

can crawl,

I can crawl an empty quarter parched for the map to your waist.

Listen to the hum of stars in your silence.

Listen to my thoughts.

Breathless wind chimes from our bodies to eternity, possible, possible.

I would then lean in on your chest, leave the wetness of primal

swamps behind for merely a plunge into you.

Your arms a canyon to set up camp in, to make a small fire, heat heart and

feet and close the eyes. I would find borders to my refugee

blood. I would

order a citizenship,

make a permanent passport.

Draw a land property owned with my teeth

on the horizon between your nipples.

A home from within and without, a resting swatch of grass with dew, ground for homeless

curls. A purple iridescent valley is

your expanse. A rocky hell.  A jagged wasteland of hope

oppressed. A temple obscure, as a planet rotates between our heartbeats,

one seat apart.

Your smile is the sphere of earth and her orbit.

I would wander upstream . I would plant buds

of kisses like tulips,

fuchsia. Your nape, a soft winged bird can depart in rapture,

flight. Free fall into the universe that carries me, afloat.

I would trudge the geography, soar all the way to

my heart, beating a retreat from this life solitary

we once knew.

I would live there.

I would die there.   Your brow an assigned grave to a past remembered and

discarded.

I would let our faces discover the distance of nothing, the separation of being one, a unit of skin

that cinders, and I would, I would finally drop anchor on your lips.

I would come home to your lips.

I would be finished.

I would be stone that

speaks poems. Time traveling lips unleash histories straight to your

lungs, alive. I would pour soul honey into your cavity,

into all that is craving sugar words and the insides of me, sweet.

I would kiss you until there was no more you.

I would kiss you until you become the dictionary of anything I ever desired,

in all the letters ever invented-

and abandoned-  for love.

I would kiss you, kiss you till we infuse nothing but moonlight internal.

I could light up your cells.

I could bewitch your future with spells, blazing.

But the angular cruelty of your knee is a razor blade.

Beside me, translucent blood spills over our feet, concrete bricks.

You read, I write.

Desire for you pricks.

And you are my friend,

you are my friend,

you are my friend.

And it is the year two thousand something,

and no one falls in love anymore.