16 September 2010

poems (too busy to write more, lately)

the things we mean the most are always the hardest to say
(or, i love you).

it hovers. it grows larger with every scratch
i claw into the skin of your back. it stretches
out our lungs, like a pocket of unspoken air. it aches.
it coagulates in the membranes like sticky mucus,
like promises we hope we’ll somehow keep.
it teases our tastebuds. we roll it like a pebble
under our tongues. we try to stop it with moans
and whispers. with mouths to skin. with fear.
but finally it bursts.
and it surges, like a river behind a rising floodgate.
or a storm. it rumbles up our throats and washes
out of our pores. we touch each other in the most
intimate of places, the soles of our feet, the earlobe
and the hip bone. our sweat-slick bodies shiver.
our molecules tremble. we become parts of each other.
finally, we are most fully ourselves.


Monkey Man said...

passion lust love each different yet overlapping - confusing. Great poem, Chris. Such feeling.

the walking man said...

That was fairly orgasmic I'd say.

Red Boots said...

I love this. I feel your words. You are such a talented writer.