nearly home. nearly home. a space and time away from where you want to be: belonging to yourself. there is a midnight garden somewhere inside my lungs, black and tarry from the darkness i am siphoning from your lips to mine, trying to let the light in, trying to stop the hurt becoming a euphemism for two vertical red lines drawn in a bathtub. you have turned me inside out. raw, vulnerable; the silence is an agony.
you have wormed your way inside and I have agreed to be your golem, a clay replacement for the affections of the woman who bedded herself beneath your skin and rearranged your spine. even so, let me give til i am a dry husk, let me pour what’s in my veins over you to wash you back to shore
no lion has eyes like yours, cut from the very fabric of the ocean, you are between dawns and you are limitless in dusk. you are too much a night creature to be good for those who dwell in the day, sitting in the cave of your bed, waiting for the foolish wanderings of curious black lambs, wishing for warmth in their shorn coats.
the courage intoxicates, i am tenderly placing my throat between the king’s jaws. expecting savage oblivion, not the wet rasp of his tongue in affection, undone and convulsing, the soft belly of my feelings exposed to your blades. you have never given me the words, truly, your subconscious whispers them, more courageous than the constructed man you think you should be.
labyrinths and conversations have become synonymous. threading me with skeins of memory incarnadine, i bleed every morning after your fingers lay their claim inside my body. we are two lovers divided by a common language. you are as distant and remote as the moon. you are as close as sun sinking into my skin and prolonged exposure makes me sick.