bled in (a collaboration with EC)

I sit every morning on the other side of his coffee cup just waiting to hear him remind me of things, tease me and listen to him laugh, as I hold my legs tightly together so he can’t notice what he does to me. But he always notices, and I see the color of his eyes turn to obsidian as his fingers move across my thighs and caress softly. I imagine my tongue across the tiny scar inside his lip and I realise Im just a drop amidst the pools of rain reflecting the black suns rays.

i feel her next to me every morning, her vibrations practically sending rings across the coffee between us. my every thought is to expound upon her majesty, to let my words wash over her need but i make jokes instead because her joy is just as sensual. her hand brushes my forearm and i feel the fever begin burning at her accidental touch. she could sense my need with the flush of her cheeks. i fear i am just a fleck if foam in the immensity of her ocean yet all I want is to fade back into the waves

My vicious is caught between his teeth and he holds it against his tongue tying knots in my heartbeats until they are tethered to his. So on the days he’s gone my mind wanders into its green abyss and I worry about being left without him. Without the lavender calm that interrupts my every storm and tempers the tempest. His perfect rhythm of care, absence and intimacy. My yardstick for measurement of sanity and hardwiring for survival. He’s just enough reality to keep my feet on the ground yet never clips my wings.

my quiet weighs tons, only her fingertips can coax a song from the silence as she braids my lonely into her sunlight cascade. when she is gone, i sit in the sunlight to feel her upon my skin, a tether, a chain to keep me from sliding into the madness of screams. her peony petals softly against my skin smoothen the horns that seek to jut from my skull, my demons, far from personal, diminished. her essence is a balm to the broken to shed the illusions with whispered truth

He wants me wide open like a full grown wildflower, all my tender places exposed, dripping honey and him. He collects all of my gentle in his fingertips and tells it to swallow hard. Around here they say to always be prepared for an earthquake. But little do they know I’m really preparing for the apocalypse that is him. He is not a poem, but he is the cadence to my breathing and the moon in my pulse

she trails her tongue over my surrender until there is only the steel rigidity, leaving her saltwater stillness to quench the white hot glow. she gathers my sorrows, biting each between her ivory teeth as I lick the juice from her lips and chin. I grew up around tornado sirens, so I have prepared for her violent calm my entire life. she is not be a poem, but her rhythm shapes my double helix soul

I am the salty lips and open wounds that are beneath his chapped refrain and soft kisses. He leaves me a fiery angel brimming with an envious afterglow. We are more than blood and bones, flesh and scars. I have lodged memoirs and yellow stained elegies in his spine like herbs and seeds, a slant of light on the old cellar floor. We share one glass, our lip prints smeared in a fragile scarlet truth and treasured faith.

i am the puckered scars that drift along the otherwise unblemished serenity of her whispered prose, my horns singer from her halo as her lust pitches to a heavenly crescendo. we are more than hopes and dreams, salty lips and open wounds, i scrape my words into her marrow with insidious need, a lot by cold shadow along her sun brightened tiles of parisian gold. i pick up the glass to press my lips where hers once rested, finding faith in her scarlet smears

We are the whispered moon written in shorthand and we swallow the morning sin displayed across the margins like we were bled into it

we are the shooting stars in cursive upon the night time vellum, we skim across the evening whims displayed within the verse as if we were bled in

EC sends me these lines that are perfection breathed upon the page and all i can do is marvel at what her voice has done to mine as i respond. every poet seeks a muse, but not every muse is a poet. she is everything.

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