I’m thinking about she,
whose mouth draped in the dark
over collarbone, making shapes
with wet kiss and fluttering form.
I wonder, was she trying to start
a war between tongue and gums,
or making way for the teeth?
Were hands always stitched this way,
moulding and squirming and
transforming the heat into love?
Were they built to finger at her
dimples or glass jaw bone,
scratching into melted form?
She would fixate on black and white
photographs, like conspiracies
scooping her up and dropping her
into the water to sink, like a
wedding ring in a bubble bath.
And she would be fascinated by
the colour of the soap, catching on the
spike of her brows beneath the surface,
combing at me to pull her out, or jump in
and submerge my own fins.
I would always choose the latter,
partying in the ruffles and waves,
dancing with octopus emotions
drenched in vinegar and salt.
I like to think some hero would find us
here among the dead, and he might
notice the dangers of falling inside our
own minds the way we already have.
He may see the way we hold each other,
like sand moving through an hourglass:
complete weightlessness and blurred boundaries.
And he would go home to his love, wrestle
his arm around her waist like a stomach knot
that wouldn’t unravel, and she would demand
he holds her at the hips as she hovers.
Just like that, we latched onto vines again,
trying to lift us out from swimming lights
we felt so mesmerised by, and fixate on the
bedroom walls instead, showered in
forget-me-nots and shadows from the
wardrobe door that wouldn’t shut.
And her thumbs press into my cheeks,
and she screams into my mouth:
why do you love me?