It's giving, the mood is

In those moments when you're vulnerable, in your desperate need for safe Your breath steals from mine, as your arms entwine 'round my waist and your buried head.

I used to believe myself a burden. A person that was unlucky, too vile I believed it was MY conscious to burden every long night and mirrored smile.

A sonnet performed an audience stilled with a pin drop echoed as curtains closed.

'Cause it was not a story you want to hear - not one to feel or see A story where the skins been torn and there's salt where a balm should be

'Cause it's not a worry that should prick your nerve - to the point of phantom pains A film your watchin', lids taped up, a cup rinsed with grime and blood stains (yeah it looks clean enough, it'll do)

And now there are smaller arms, wrapped 'round my waist, and I look down at innocence and purity in love.

Towards me, towards us.

//

In need of bandages and not a sleeve in sight I wouldn't think it so much if the numbness didn't set in yeah there is none where there was once pulsin'

Wish I was sober enough to know what caused it - Wait, no, I remember. I was there wide eyed and red I didn't say nothin', but my face and skin it said,

You, you are it, kid. You and no other will do. You, you are one of a kind, kid. With all others I've tested, but I've passed you through.

So how did I get to this place All sully eyed and wishin' for some cloth

shake your pockets to feel somethin' anything with an excuse to brush your legs fumblin' deeper to reach that breathin' point heavy in and heavy out -

walk into walls just to have some resistance an excuse to wipe the blood off your face go faster to feel like you've gained a new friend somethin' to bounce from and talk bout

jump into puddles to get a reaction anything to take your imagination from this day to day pattern of livin' a new wet on your skin; a new focus

So, please let my fingers curl 'cross those indent crystal line that wrap around all your holiday glasses singin' angels and those smilin' faces

I'd like a distraction, please one that's gonna blur these circles I wanna trip over your tousled rug cheap oriental patterns matching floral curtains to accent the red

Bereft is me and so I leave you One last inhale of you...please just a quick sense; a tickle of tongue for our buds to seize

Breathe into me something sour - a reminder that love is prone to spoil But not without the possibility of something good something substantial

Hop in you're dirty you've yet to wash your face from last night's bawl But brace for this bath to come hold steady 'cause the string's been pulled and you've yet to fall

...A cloth of red string, rather One that was pulled 'til there was nothin' left to cover. And so you is skin; all to view and none left to thought by a faulty sense of stitch and gilded lover.

Just a call of red now strings, to some extent Ones that you're tangled in with shoulders slouched and ankles bent...

Guts loaded but I'm asking for seconds I guess I'll just be sick for satisfaction

Instead of being scared shitless for hungry I'll stay fed to your limit

is my ration is what I'm failed to feel - I'll take it

It's weird...'cause I guess I'm just lonely I'm wantin' a hand to hold and palm to kiss Nothin' too desperate is want that's unholy I'm prayin' but my knees aren't bent

So I guess its just back to my place A cold smaller suite with no view 'cept one of the aged brick and neighbour's tiffany Noisy heat and burnt coffee to breathe ...nothing new

nothin different...no noise to greet me but my own A tattered breath from stairs too great in numbers stubborn keys empty room

It's really just another trek back to normalcy a trample over pavement to my home I'm stompin' over cracks to break any spell of mother some way of bad to bring me good - some backwards happenstance I guess - some idiot's attempt at happiness some morbid way to fix this being alone

//

an operatic measure ...this is what I called it whistlin' dixie for something outside myself

unlike any other ...this is more you're pulpit thrashin' fists to get that point across

but knuckles bled you still think it worthy of my thoughts or lazy lids to yours and my lips are quiverin' cause you deem it neccessary in faith to follow steady course

doesn't matter my intentions - though this pregnant pause in time we share is nothing more than shared breath in need of cracked skin with bones bared

for someone to heal 'em or someone to care

//

So I'll take this crooked mouth and grin No simper from me - I'll take the hit and let you win Just remember this later Take a pause and feel your palm Does the stench of skin still linger? Have you yet to wash it off?

Don't bother - No, I'll leave it I'll tuck this cud back to my throat And if I feel the slightest bit of vengeance Trust me, I won't

'cause stains of blood wash out with bleach and beneath the skin it fades

It's giving a want and I'll give it my take - nothing asked for, but I'mma dive in.

________

Release

It's like that feeling when voices align and sing above the melody - a vibration that tickles the nerve and raises the skin. 'Hey La Hey La' we're all riding a shared high and eyes closed we inhale as one before belting out chords to celebrate love.

Movement

It's like that quickened pulse you get when the pace is matched with a slower step - a realised joy, a frantic need to step into. A trial of hope with a verdict of pain you're wading through. Isn't it beautiful.

Resistance

It's that need to smack your palm to gain heat - or heavy digs of a heal to earth while your head swings to beat. It's heavy, there's weight - and your body is pulled.

Languish

It's complete immersion into softness - fingertips that trill along your skin. It's eyes closed and a spine tilted...a mouth open, neck displayed. It's a question you answer. It's an eye you catch. It's a warmth that leads to a simple end.

There's a child in that room, so desperate to turn off the noise. To turn off the turmoil, the bubbling heat of shame in her gut.

It's a feeling, a tone. A 'Ready? On the count of 3' - a jump from 300 miles awaits.

It's stickiness without words to cleanse, to scrub it off and toss the towel into flames.