Sta.sh
All That Beckons
by ~sweet-sangria[for B.]
Did you know
that your call would thunder in her cochlea,
even an unfinished forethought
of your love-making
could pivot her sideways
into a lonelier torso? Guess not.
Since the night in the mirrored
room, she beams
the color of fingernails,
frankly sated, yet still
stubbornly long for southbound traces
of your hands, a hunger
never muted, never confined.
Through the curvature of her suave
pinks (whichever lips you think of)
exit wayward vowels,
something that could easily be mistaken
as ardor. It is not.
It takes more than weaving fingers
to thread love.
"Whose past are you not getting through now?"
Suppose all beckoning utterance
should lead somewhere, maybe
to undress again, breathing,
not breathing,
in awaiting rapture -- your femurs could
handle her weight, so you said.
If we belong, it is because
we read our own fortunes.
By chance, you meet her again.
Everything billows from here.
this is the one time and only time i will drop a hint of admission that i have indeed saw gossip girl series.
hey, my lips are suave. (so much for humility)
--
sangrmahlia.tumblr.com
(this is the one and only time I will drop that many clue haha)