it's my primal bite and extinguished aphorism. it's the late night glances praying for earth to be less cold and more clean. it's more than the feeling of being scratched in the back of your mind each time you belong in my skin. because for us, we kiss the hours of gold and few longing. and would you believe it? i am a three-selved woman who dines on your god since you talked to me past two moons now. a clockwise confession i yearned for years but i watched it slowly as it melted holy on your tongue. let me tell you about october, libra. let me tell you about love when the flesh burns and the threshold is nothing but decay.
mid-summer and you ferment on my back like fresh greece and grapewine. say, how do i fill you about desire and still be hungry for it? how do i unclench these fists and not remember each muscle memory limb by limb? fuck the seeds of pomegranate. let no painting drain you and starve the beauty i drink from your juice. i will turn peach and pink for you. even so, this is love. and so, this is softness cleaved in two to tender the grazing part of you of us. what do you say if you stick in my palms and you eat me whole and we never perish after the sun? oh, it's my bloodline bending backwards reaching saturn for ninetynine. it's your first fingers inside me slipping heavy but slow. the late night foraging of our flesh. baby, look at my body now: all sore and sweat. aren't you hungry, oh wouldn't you feed me?
mid-summer and you ferment on my back like fresh greece and grapewine. say, how do i fill you about desire and still be hungry for it? how do i unclench these fists and not remember each muscle memory limb by limb? fuck the seeds of pomegranate. let no painting drain you and starve the beauty i drink from your juice. i will turn peach and pink for you. even so, this is love. and so, this is softness cleaved in two to tender the grazing part of you of us. what do you say if you stick in my palms and you eat me whole and we never perish after the sun? oh, it's my bloodline bending backwards reaching saturn for ninetynine. it's your first fingers inside me slipping heavy but slow. the late night foraging of our flesh. baby, look at my body now: all sore and sweat. aren't you hungry, oh wouldn't you feed me?
it's my silence, stretched thin like the breath between thunder and breathless sea. it's my tongue caught in the crack between words, where the storm of meaning collapses inward, a promise that never lands. the wind stirs as though it knows, fingers tracing the bruises left by unsaid things. the way the air bends around me, as if it’s waiting for me to scream, but it doesn’t—because i know you know how silence tastes, how it burns, how it never reaches your ears but settles deep in the bones.
and here, in the hush, there is a hunger you cannot hear. how i want to speak the language of loss, where every word cuts deeper than the last. where love is the ache of wanting more than you can give, and the sea answers only with its cold, endless horizon. i want to tell you how the wind sings in my chest, how it tears at my insides, how my ribs ache with words i don’t know how to say, words that could drown you if they were said aloud. but i know this silence will fill you—how it settles between us like a secret that can’t be spoken, like something we both know will destroy us if we look at it too long.
the ocean murmurs, it knows the way i burn. i am a vessel of empty spaces, hollowed by things i’ve never told you. the moon sees me like this, alone and aching, wrapped in the tangle of quiet and desire, and i don’t know which one is worse, which one will tear me apart first. love, maybe, or the grief of it. how strange that they are the same. i watch the waves pull and crash against themselves, and in that rhythm, i hear my heart beating out your name, soft and desperate, like the wind that never stops.
this is how i want you. in fragments, in pieces that fit together and tear apart at the edges. the wind knows this, the sea knows this, but you—you only need to feel it, to taste it like salt on your tongue, to understand that desire, too, is silence.
and here, in the hush, there is a hunger you cannot hear. how i want to speak the language of loss, where every word cuts deeper than the last. where love is the ache of wanting more than you can give, and the sea answers only with its cold, endless horizon. i want to tell you how the wind sings in my chest, how it tears at my insides, how my ribs ache with words i don’t know how to say, words that could drown you if they were said aloud. but i know this silence will fill you—how it settles between us like a secret that can’t be spoken, like something we both know will destroy us if we look at it too long.
the ocean murmurs, it knows the way i burn. i am a vessel of empty spaces, hollowed by things i’ve never told you. the moon sees me like this, alone and aching, wrapped in the tangle of quiet and desire, and i don’t know which one is worse, which one will tear me apart first. love, maybe, or the grief of it. how strange that they are the same. i watch the waves pull and crash against themselves, and in that rhythm, i hear my heart beating out your name, soft and desperate, like the wind that never stops.
this is how i want you. in fragments, in pieces that fit together and tear apart at the edges. the wind knows this, the sea knows this, but you—you only need to feel it, to taste it like salt on your tongue, to understand that desire, too, is silence.