i can(‘t) do almost anything to you

the world outside my head is separate from me.
i find myself often wishing to reach for your hand
and pull you/seduce you inside of me in vulgar and vulnerable ways
so we could sit crosslegged in the center of my skull,
your back to mine, in silence.
i asked you whether there are freckles on your back
and though i didn’t think of it then
i wonder now if i wanted to know if maps exist in your flesh
to guide me down to where your heart lies asleep,
into your skull where i can tiptoe on your spinal cord
and leap off into the canyons of gray matter where you hide.
i am trapped in my skull.
you are buried in that brain.

coffee accelerated, cold-hurting, late night sensual i sit here,
refusing sleep though its eyes loom luminous over my shoulder curious and waiting–
he thinks i’ll go with him. think twice, morpheus; your will is no match for mine,
not when i ache from the follicles in my scalp to the commas of my hips pausing for breath
to inhale between my thighs new concepts of sensation and sex i have not had.

sometimes i feel as if i am not a good friend to you. needing to be a good friend to you
is overshadowed often by longing to be a lover curved like carved wood over
the bones of your hips in morning light; desire has almost always (especially lately) eclipsed duty
and this is one of many reasons you will not let me have you.
i want you.

my mouth is closed but i am speaking to you with roving tongue over slick teeth:
they should be clamped on your earlobe,
my nails deserve to tattoo your back in blood henna
my ankles to hook over yours
i belong as a trap to ensnare you and you will not let me close.
you insist that i remain wide and waiting
and hungry for your submission.

forever is not logical,
but i refuse never.


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