The page has opened, a tear in monotony.
stolen passion with fluttering breath sees
eyelids firmed shut, but urgent wanting
drowns vision ahead of physical forms.
I can’t stop touching you:
collarbone, shoulder blade, ribcage,
hipbone, femur, ankle.
you speak of torn dreams of intimacy
in mysterious vowels, whispered,
I don’t understand ich liebe.
drift, drift my sweet
we are both safe
in our own languages
we lost the day and saw the night,
revolving pressures of the constellations
suffered through absence
(the vessel expanded as we filled it).
I look into your eyes and see
myself exploding through reduction
reducing the everything
the vessel extricates itself from its own implication
opens up, posing as nothing
it is everything, every thought is a removal.
you leave on monday,
on monday there is more nothing
on monday there is less something
The page has closed, a suspension of routine.