Afterthought(s)

Stories can end in the middle of a book. I watch out for this when reading. It’s the only thing that truly terrifies me.

(placeholder for things I wish you knew on top of those you think you do)

I aim at living for a very long time.

038

we decide
                   what is
us.              beyond



-end-

043

There’s definitely
more to this
than a mere kiss
on a subtle hint
of a crease
                   on your nape;

Definitely more to this breath
than a sheer heaving;
more to this touch
than a firm grip
on your posture:
                           (Sultry,)


[This possession:

                           fleeting]


[Your lips,
                           divine.]


Could there be more
to this disease

                           than the desire
to strip you
                           of your titles?

So titillating;
these digits.

So shallow:
The valleys of your letters
                           to the touch.

Paths, supine,
embossed on your skin,
perforated onto lobes;

I could really use a map.

For days, I will walk
against the flaps of your lashes;

your presence, suspended,
in the air, perhaps on a shelf.

For now, I’ll take my time
to figure out the gap
between your covers.)
Slow, profound, and tedious.

Whilst slow doesn’t always translate
                           to certain.

***

There
is definitely
more to chapters,
than the owning;

More disease,
than the desire;

More to this
than the waiting

for the solemn
parting

of
    your
            pages.

-end-

069

Precisely, the sequence:

Following stimulation
are the absence of words
sudden failure of sight
and then my consumption of you

I taste you with my tongue
and you come
with my heaving

Untruthful, it is,
the serving of you in cups,
for when you are this,
I cannot at all touch

you, rather

it’s you who serves me
in senses of taste and sound
and who stimulates
in ways olfactory

A splash, I spew
this, my thank you.

***

Damn, do you sustain me:
You are the air I sneeze.



-end-