Perhaps instead, you come bearing other burdens accrued over a lifetime of seismic events. With a pulse like a warzone, and a tic at the corner of your eye. Torn between a craving for sanctuary and bloodrush of the precipice. A smile that isn’t and a throat dry as doubt.
You can leave your sentences unfinished, not because I know what you’re going to say, but because I trust time to ripen them. One day at dawn, they’ll give up their bitter juices and stain my skin. I’ll press my face into the palm of your hand and scream obscenities. I’ll rub my lips raw against the bristle of your beard and bleed against your lips. Bruise myself against your hips. Weep into your hair. Leave the crescent moon lines of my fingernails on your ass cheeks when I drink you down.
I’ll leave my blood on your sheets and strands of dark hair caught up in your fingers. You will invade me with words, core me with belligerent intentions and wound me carelessly. I’ll call you a cunt, curse your mother and then forgive you and come against your thigh. I’ll throw books at you and miss. We will fight on bridges, fuck in alleyways, trade cruelties and be ashamed. You will turn me from human to animal and back again in an afternoon.
My mouth will flood when I think of you. I won’t be able to tell my cunt from my heart. And I’ll never find a way to forget your name. That’s what I want.