I’ve mocked you, grinning,
for the ginger in your beard.
And I’ve poked and pulled the dark hard hairs
which surge up from your face.
I’ve worn the grazing rasp
of stubble on my face
(and on my neck
and on my breasts…)
And once (a secret)
tweezed your glinting stubble
from my hands
from my caress.
Yet sometimes, when I stare
(I know my staring disconcerts you)
I hardly see the shadow of your beard
instead and only—
the softening cushions of your lips,
the gentle planes which strain to softness,
which smile in repose
which dance against my own
We’ve loved a summer now,
and words have scattered in your sight.
That surge towards you in my heart
pulls smiles, not words, to kiss my lips,
and sighs (and—god!—those moans) to
echo in my throat.
I gasp your words in place of air,
yet trace my scattering phrases
in my touch upon your skin.
And now—and now—
as you sleep on Skype,
and snuggle in my pixels,
my heart pumps words within my veins.
And silence flows with feeling now articulate.
And caring comes in whispers
of my pen upon this page.
We lived each other in simplicity,
and lazed around the house, relaxed,
and hummed our own vibrations in our bed.
We played the cadence of our resonance,
distorted, sagged defeat.
Until, at last, the distance pulled us tighter,
strained, until we pitched back into peace.
And under strain, we gripped,
until, too taut, we snapped.
And that is all.
Just dreadful waves of silence,
the whiplash on my cheek.
It scares me, now,
to see the youthful vigour
of my mind’s imagination,
when, as a child, the forests seemed like home.
The danger of an innocence
wrapped in perils all naivety can mend.
To see the stormy waters
as bronze crests my hands would calm,
to sooth-en melted gold.
For now, I see, my peace
is stirred instead, in stillness,
as ocean torrents churn, in violence,
fast, and dash my drifting down
to slow descent, and stillness.
My peace, perfection, in that instant I inhale you.
Foreign, you yet fill my lungs,
you steal my breath, my former life
escapes, to drift
towards the crests of distant waves
which, once I rode, then
crashed beneath, to stillness.
For which no child prepares solutions.
I cannot help but wonder
what you’d think, knowing,
as you do, my name.
How could you read these words my hands have typed
whilst feeling still the echoes of their touch upon your skin?
And I’d have to say, it’s true
I know, that these hands know
your body better than they know my mind.
But in fairness I should say,
of course, that these words,
will never be about you.
you are more real than that.
Not here, but yet I know
you can be found in pencil,
in notebooks all handwritten,
shapes I once traced on your skin.
I would have loved to be her reflection
to have your double trace his hands upon my skin
looking at me the way you look at her
while I glow to molten glass beneath his touch.
I wanted, in yet another mirror,
to share in her perfection
to revel in possession of that mole beneath her eyes,
the smooth, more streamline, contours of her thighs.
I ached to sense your weight on me
hardened, glossy, gilded
to writhe beneath your reflection
entangled, captured by your image.
I wanted, simply,
to echo each and every movement,
face flickering her sensations
tensing towards her brittleness
in silent, glassy, screaming.
I wanted it