From the lips of people we say we love,
there are words of eternity,
of certainty, anxiety.
Your warmth with mine,
fingers intertwined,
eyes flashing a look of crushing depth,
smiles that we whisper risque things about.
A headless serpent,
writhing, twisting, undulating
trying to escape without wanting escape.
Your heartbeat, beating it’s way through your chest,
ribs stressed from lungs shuddering
as I taste every inch.
Pressed into affection
stubborn yet plyable
know just where to feel,
grasp,
caress.
Curves followed with a tender hand,
feeling each-other’s life
with every bruise,
every callous,
every scar.
There is no power here
only vulnerability
except one is willing to be harsh.
Harsh breathing,
harsh lips,
harsh hips,
harsh love.
Formless yet definite.
Shameless and uncaring, still hidden away.
What do we call lovers
who don’t say I love you?
Lovers, still,
just with imperfect intentions.
