maybe it is an amalgamation of things.
the smell in your mouth that is like air
whistling through a hollow sawn-off metal pipe
heavy and cold, intoxicates me. your skin
is impossible and your lips are luscious
to the point of screaming fuck,
as many times as the sky can hold.
you taught me bone-deep exhaustion
strong and sultry, collapsing in folds of limb
to the bed and dreaming strange dreams.
maybe it is the comfortable suffering in your closed eyes
while i pick your nose and peel the crust of sleep from your ducts
or the urge that presses my body between its palms and pushes in opposite directions
until i curve to your angles: my body says please, please, please,
and your body says yes, sleepily, grudgingly even, but always yes.
your body always says yes, even when your mind is drowsy. my body
says whatever you will as long as it’s you.
it could be the desperation in our anger and our embraces
or how i terrify myself late at night thinking you would be a decent father
if i was a better idea of a mother and we were those kind of people,
the ones who plan things. but we are the kind who slip subtly,
who sea change, who transmute from casual to conflicted,
from wicked to wanting: from lovers, only,
why would you ask me a question like that, i want to know,
when you know i hate obvious questions? the answer is everything. it’s forty-two.
blue eyes white dragon. i love you more than there are versions of pokemon,
yu-gi-oh decks, versions of the cover for the newest harry potter dvd.
your eyes in the shower that night in the hotel,
these still-sore cuts and bruises marring/marking me (do you know that you claim me
even as you clutch me? i belong to you. you have no other choice now),
my puns that aren’t as bad as duck’s
and your memes. cracked.com on your phone
and the way your body seems to be suspended on a great sphere of wires
threaded right through you, pulling and twisting you
into contortions terrifying and beautiful to behold when you dance.
it’s written in the ink in your tattoos.
this is why. your scent. the drawn-bow angle that is your sensitive hipbone.
sunlight making your pupils contract until only the darkness of your eyes meets mine.
your nails in my back and your teeth in my side and your moans in my blanket long after you’re gone.
japanese. sushi. chai. everything i hate that you love. the chopsticks you laughed over
and tired memes.
that is why.