exempt from your careful touch,
from the axis tilting whatever
blooms in your heart.
Because what you whispered
last night was a contract,
inked into where no other can reach,
I pulled away and the tendrils
followed me all the way home.
I would burn this house down,
but the flames would only draw
apparitions and mimics of where
we once stood with each other.
When your eyes would narrow without a story,
when impulse drove these vicious engines,
chiseled other’s nails and scents upon us.
When you were never quite close enough
to me even though I always held on,
as if no one else could ever
curl so entirely around you.
I wanted to move like you,
recreate the specific timbres
recited in your ears,
passed along like a song playing
in dark tunnels that spark
with each ricochet.
There are times when I need
to be a force to you,
times when I need to be
exempt from the quiet persona,
the docile form you gleaned as prey.
Because what you whispered
last night was a contract,
sprawled across our bare bodies
but embedding its language
far below any expanse we teased,
any plane we longed to burn.
But that torch would be a reminder,
mimicking exactly where we once stood,
where the vicious engines fueling impulse
marked upon and within another.
When I wanted my name to be
the fevered gasp escaping you
rather than some warm pleasantry
slithering inside to soothe when it suits you.
I wanted to move like you,
to be craved as you quietly
crossed forbidden borders,
mimic whatever song coaxed
this electricity you stir.
There are times when I need
to be exempt from the apparition
of how we really began,
when I could take,
but never have you,
inside and under skin,
only in shadowy folds.
Only in the pause between
whatever axis so entirely grips you,
because what you whispered
last night was a contract.
A vicious engine of ricocheting impulse.
