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The swooning truth of dying soldiers is in my mouth. The accordion of your ribcage bellows closed in this embrace. You blood fissures through you like a photograph of a lightning strike and I feel the automatic response of genes to the grey sky of your eyes. You’re the softest bridge I know. You are the teeth in the wolf’s mouth shining brightly in a mother’s moonlit smile and there’s no place I’d rather be.
The yaw and pitch of you. The reel to reel of you. The lonely, lonely heart of you.
This clutch becomes a fraction and the future becomes a whole as every portal whirlpools me into the future beneath the smell of your hair and the feel of long musician’s fingers tracing love notes on my back in scarlet letters.
The alphabet of stairs lies crooked on your smirk. The alien glancing blow of your laugh swirls mouthwash green back to times before language. My tendons wrap you, become rivers, and tighten again. The bashful bricks of your foundation attract the wheeling crows of my scattered thoughts to roost, to stop circling. You are the elephant’s memory of a swan’s neck. The dial tone of an abandoned photographer’s studio. I am the burning passport of a person who has decided to stay where he’s landed for as long as he can. Let’s stitch our treasure maps together, put them in the glove compartment of a used car, and push it off of a cliff.
Moments of courage are the paddle-strokes that make a life. A future beckons. A future we all know well but haven’t met yet. Your time machine is deep inside your chest, back and to the left.
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The yaw and pitch of you. The reel to reel of you. The lonely, lonely heart of you.
This clutch becomes a fraction and the future becomes a whole as every portal whirlpools me into the future beneath the smell of your hair and the feel of long musician’s fingers tracing love notes on my back in scarlet letters.
The alphabet of stairs lies crooked on your smirk. The alien glancing blow of your laugh swirls mouthwash green back to times before language. My tendons wrap you, become rivers, and tighten again. The bashful bricks of your foundation attract the wheeling crows of my scattered thoughts to roost, to stop circling. You are the elephant’s memory of a swan’s neck. The dial tone of an abandoned photographer’s studio. I am the burning passport of a person who has decided to stay where he’s landed for as long as he can. Let’s stitch our treasure maps together, put them in the glove compartment of a used car, and push it off of a cliff.
Moments of courage are the paddle-strokes that make a life. A future beckons. A future we all know well but haven’t met yet. Your time machine is deep inside your chest, back and to the left.
tags