There’s a place outside my pattern when I’m suspended with you. Our mouths meet and nobody is kissing anyone, this kiss is just happening between us and I’m startled and fascinated enough to stop frantically trying to unscramble or squash the broken shambles of mush and guts and want and hope and maybe that might belong to either of us and float all around charging the air around us and supporting our insanity pleas.
In that place between the safety wall of your arms and the shattering drop up ahead called not-for keeps there’s room for me and I can’t help wanting to stretch out there as a dare and a lure and a plea. We share an eye for the gritty shine of irrefutable truth, a need for the scrape and tear and salt and suck of it hurts so good and it‘s the beginning and the end and it‘s comfortably dim.
March 22, 2009
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