you cannot say
“this is enough.”
when
the thought
of your thighs
makes the world
too small
to hold
my
hunger
Category: Poetry
Words, the blood of poets. Slick, wet, hot, pouring over the page in a curtain of sultry satin red.
janus

spilt
you like to hold
your cup
like it might
shatter
if I speak.
I noticed today
that you put
all the glassware
behind the cereal
so I’m waiting
to see
if you ask me
for milk.
Choked.
choked
on my words
placed
so delicately
upon your tongue
you are taught
to respect
prohibitions
by force
“what will you do
when my reach is so long
I can pluck your sins
like over-ripe cherries?”
your answer
is no answer at all
because you cannot speak
with my words
filling
and burning
your mouth
blank spaces
what if all the blank spaces
are just hiding places
for my devils?
and I fill this page with words
to overturn their homes
pluck them by their wings
and make them mine again
bright light
you are
a bright light.
a soft curve
unrepentant
but forgiving
you are today’s delight
the space between each breath
and sometimes
breath itself
never enough
There is not enough of you.
Not enough of the special brand of mischief
your eyes promise.
Not enough of your promiscuous laugh
that has made itself so comfortably at home in my heart.
Not enough of your crooked smile,
or the map of your thighs in the morning
a lazy but confident promise
if only
I will stay in bed.
There is not enough of you.
so I stole your shadow from a sunny day
to shade me while I read
I convinced your reflection to follow me home
and watch me as I write.
There is not enough of you,
so I will write you into a line,
a poem
a book
a dream.
i see you breathe
i steal
your breath
just
to
make
your
lips
part
for
me
hungry heart
there was a moment
when her eyes
met mine
that I
knew
she would be
poised
parted
and
perfect
I would know her
through her
beautiful eyes
and she would know me
through
my
hungry heart
sins of the map-maker
I know your curves.
I learned them the best way possible.
by touch and by taste.
with time and with hunger.
deliberate and slow.
swift and sure.
I mapped the contours of your body with intent and your curves remember me well; strong hands and parted lips left landmarks.
I left my poetry between your thighs and my scent upon your skin.
you are known, but not discovered; there are secrets left in the cleft of your thighs, and the rising rhythm of your breathe.
I know your curves.
But I want to know them better.