Tight-lipped,
Their forgotten I love yous.
She crawls on me
Looking for things she lost
In my skin,
The repetition of it all
Making it too late
And too unwanted
To catch the significance
Running off of me
"Do you remember the time..."
She blanches,
I turn,
She cries,
I turn back,
She whispers her protests,
I get it.
"It Ain't Me, Babe..."
Her fists make small hurdles,
Past which I might kiss her.
"I meant it's irresponsible.
A bomb went off here."
Her tears create a slalom,
A dress rehearsal,
A reminder of the children lost
As casualties of all such...
"That doesn't make it a war."
I pet her hair,
The tiles cold under my shoulder blades.
She sinks to my chest,
Low disappointment
Lobbing her voice
Soft and girlish.
"That's just something else we're not."
There's junkies in Florida.
Rapists in Amsterdam.
Genocide of all rich maneuvers.
Desecration in a boy's heart.
All objects which I could
With cruel precision
Slip inside her
Wanting body.
She chooses for me,
Her lips red stretching
The distances I'm prepared to go.
I knot my fingers hard
Into her curls and grip tight
Because she won't fucking let me.
Her shoulders fall heavy
Oblique to my thighs.
"There's a way to measure this,"
I whisper, my voice replied by tile,
But she doesn't hear,
Or pretends to.
This could be the end,
The way she flicks her
Tongue to meet me in my discovery.
This could be the end,
How I am so beholden to
And idea I surrender to,
But could only brutishly describe.
This could be the end,
The sunset of my years inside her.
Her eyes beg me not to say it,
And so I am quietly devoured,
Pride and all.
In the silent dark of her.
In the closed funnel of the wave of her.
I swell up, bee-stung and atrocious.
I wait my turn.
I abhor the gentle pry of her fingers.
She pushes lithe with her small tongue
Pulling any wreckage she pleases from the reeds
And pressing me backward into each pylon,
She forgives,
And forgives,
And forgives.
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