Entertaining Myself

I want us to become a language for euphoria, an alphabet of limbs

Understand me. I’m not like an ordinary world. I have my madness, I live in another dimension and I do not have time for things that have no soul.

Tonight I lie awake and run your absence through my fingers: here’s the touch of you, your warmth and give, our conspiracy of flightlessness.

Yours is not an accent. Or a lisp built into the frame of your mouth or a slip of the tongue you forgot to pick yourself up from. Yours is the way a doctor’s note is always illegible, as if saving lives has made the hand dreary, tired, lacking  life of its own. Yours is the way one kind of sweet  always cancels out another, like a sip of  three-sugar-one-milk after a bite of tart, but a kiss after a kiss is just as good, just as tasty. Yours is the curl of toes around spoonfuls of sand. Yours has bite. It spills onto my teeth and  seeps between them and leaves my lips chapped. Yours is forgetting the last stair,  hitting your heel on flat ground just hard enough to feel gravity pulse in your palms. Yours is biblical. Sermon. Psalm.  Yours is echo against all my walls.  Whisper in all my pipes in dead of night. Yours is swing of door and creak of mattress spring. Yours is echo against all my walls, all my walls, still.