I can tell by the tilting of the moon that you feel the grip in your thickening skin as I encourage a deeper cadence of your machine body: count for me backwards from thirteen, I need to drown the ticking of the clocks nonstop in my head. Nobody wants to do these things unless they run along the trick blade of madness but you like the things they tell you not to touch.
I am in anticipation of you always, pulling tenderly on the triggers of the flustered beg of your breath on my breath before the body remembers how to fill its nascent lungs. It’s okay to be new here, angel, we never knew how it could be until our ivory wings were clipped and stitched against the ruined monuments of tragic beliefs. Stop counting. Place your fingers in my mouth and I will deliver those milk wings back to all the world as you erupt for me. This will be the gateway to endless melodic dreams come true but only if you don’t let go.
There are instincts we indulge in fantasy but deny in the flesh until the image we see of ourselves on the face of love overwhelms; reflections beyond time and space returning to us in the intimacy of the private lives we keep in jars with fireflies and broken trees. When I listen to the silence I hear every syllable of the thousand words promised us since the beginning, but they are spinning sparks in the dark, in them I see the truth that would strip the world of its desires.
You sink heavy into my thoughts before I understand the gutting rush of what I’m thinking. You have become the split reaction time between seduction and satisfaction; the alien ability to remain ready, patient, throbbing, quiet with wide eyes in bare rooms at the back of the houses I’ve abandoned inside.
All is lost, all is empty and hurled out into an orbital distance that once belonged to me. A place where souls who left this earthen chamber long ago still blow whispered pleads into the wind. Coming undone, the haunts collect me, daggers, tongues. My mind is falling along blank walls catching on hooks; my body submits to the flames, the fevered licking of unhealed wounds.
You: braiding my hair, tying ribbons around my wrists, ours is the way of redemption, the confession that breaks an honest man to dust. Release has become a midnight garden blooming under shallow moonlight, grass stains on my tired knees.
Leave me here.
Let me be alone until the night is again where it can reach me.