Speaking Poetry


It’s the kind of hot that clings
Sticky, like warm honey
Sleep is impossible
Damp sheets a scratchy second skin
So we lay awake
Watching the fat, butter yellow moon climb
The blank bruise purple city night sky.

Your shoulders are against the wall
You say it’s cooler, skin against the plaster
The back of my head rests on
Your belly, glowing soft and gold,
Fingertips making lazy whorls on my brow
When you shift beneath me slightly
I can feel the hair between your thighs
Brush the back of my neck.

My lips are dry, throat parched
You’ve had me talking to you all night
Telling you stories, pulling poems from between
The shafts of moonlight
I’m down to a hoarse whisper but if I pause
You lean forward, lips pressing against my skin
How can I resist, you pull the words from me
Like drawing water from a well.

You hold me between your legs
The night holds us like a third lover
And I hold you up like a candle
My tongue a spinning wheel
Weaving the treads of you into tapestries
Adorning the cathedral walls of our small room
Luminous, glowing over sweat and skin
And I can’t help thinking that it’s only you
That can make me beautiful.

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