I.
I am wordless, as a poet and I feel I have little to offer.
My thoughts are as dry as your mouth on this Sunday afternoon
whilst your hands are knotted in my hair and I cannot think of anything except of how your lips taste
as they are staining my hipbones

And there is only an image of a ticking clock in my head
a second for a heartbeat and perhaps you cannot feel the rhythm inside
my bones are sticking like liquid towards yours
craving for cartilage. bone to bone answers mean nothing to me
anymore

II.
my toes curl often. I find that I’m focusing on the spikes in your hair
rather than ‘that trick you do with your mouth’ and
whatever it is your hands are searching for.
I feel like a map, and maybe you are finding a location on my body
volcanoes in my pores, or magma in my blood stream. Whatever it is
i have the feeling you will not find it

not now

III.
Perhaps, again, I look in the mirror at a too pale reflection
at naked toes and
uncrossed eyes.
I am staring too hard. You are lying down.
Writing pen over ink over pen
and again
my lips crash against yours and I feel myself
tip-and-slide
over the edge
and I will say to myself that we are nothing but
‘newspaper cuttings and blue smudges on feet’
and hope you understand
this time

IV.
It’s dark now.
I cannot sleep in the silence.

V.
When you are gone and my heart is cold,
i creep quietly to the floor and lay my head upon the tiles
You fill me with the undeniable, confusion and cold.
my toes cannot curl
anymore.