To read you is five cold chains draped across my glass raspberry lips, the tempt of touch and dim lighting that makes it impossible to speak. By design? You trace your words like fingers around the edges of keyholes and never let me peek, then again so many writers kill a grand thing by saying exactly what they mean.
Do love me thorough, so much of what I could have been is already gone. This body is heels wearing footsteps, wings wearing heartbeats, drums like thunder inside a revolving sky, and I keep charts of the seasons by mapping how closely your movements match the gold flecks in my eyes.
Lady Lucifer is a painted mime with a bouquet face and horns made of tar eyelashes but this isn’t something I can prove so you just shrug and wish my visions would one day yield messages more useful. They are to me. It’s no small gesture to hold my hand, my gratitude foams across ten foot waves inside but I’m never sure where the world is headed so I kiss like reincarnation ahead of time.
I can feel you letting go and it’s like mirrors on ceilings full of broken glass, long black fingernails between the gap in my scissor legs, amber crushed split images that transfer into hellish reflections, tenderness, erotica, delusion, permission, hands over hands over hands over my transgressive mouth, and the writing on the wall is latex paint peeling away from my neck.
Pure seduction is the way of the rain: conducting a fragile flower, bending spine stems alone in the dark.
.
.
.
Allison Marie Conway 