It is midnight now and
I’m wondering if I’ll ever
be able to write about someone
who isn’t you.because I think I’m ready for this.
Ready to send you to sea,
my feet firmly imprinted on shore,
to drop your veins into water wells,
pour your voice into glass bottles and
mail them to an address,
not even the atlas has named.I know the topography of your body,
can feel the height of your shudders,
my shoulders still streaked with
the imprint of your touch,
I can pin point knuckles, throat, knees
along the longitude and latitude
of the railways and corridors hidden
underneath your flesh.There is a whole underlining infrastructure,
of soft, quiet things we keep for ourselves,
the people who truly want us try to
reach through the tiny holes in the netting,
but all they manage is their finger tips
wavering the liquid surface, a small
stroke of the flesh before it settles into silence.
Someone cannot know everything, not the things you
have forgotten, what you’ve buried into
the soil with a spade.I was one of the closest, I almost
immersed myself in you, a delicate
procedure. The almost mistakable curl of
a finger tip towards the pale layer,
the bathing of a thumb, pause, time,
shudder, my palm, all five fingers in the pool of your thought,
a thrill in the knuckles, a library of you,
pages and pages, the corner’s folded,
book marks and post it notes for future reference
of you.Somewhere that still exists tonight,
you’re peeling off this and this,
and I’m listening, exposed.
The Kiss, Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec.
In Bed, Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec.
In Bed The Kiss, Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec.
you don’t know my name by alicia keys
watch it till the end. dis gurl got MAD GAME.
~ “On the Jellicoe Road” by Melina Marchetta
I’m so sick of trying to find someone new.
I just want the feelings back that I had with you.
