08 March 2011

sometimes

under these stars
next to you
yr shoulder at my hip
i must have been yr tongue
the violent salt of yr lips
then my fingers impossibly deep
as time stops beyond logic
or science, and we chase history
before it happens, my stubble
scratching each thigh
each shaven monument to us
and we bleed each others blood
again, this time higher
than the last time

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