Face down on the bed,
I’m the boy of our dreams.
Every word is inadequate,
I say we fucked so violently that I bruised the top of my head,
So what, so what.
I mean, the words “sweet boy” whistled through the air,
Two syllables swirling thickly until they landed on my shoulder and rushed through me,
A cloud of locusts or bees,
A thick storm of a buzz, each wing beating.
And I lay there with your voice in the pit of my cunt, in my ass,
Drooling damp on the pillow,
Slamming my head into the wooden headboard.
What are we doing?
I stand weak and flushed,
Sometimes I want to add all the words, the syllables together,
Form sentences that stretch the distance from your mouth to mine and back.
I cannot talk about this swarm growing between us,
A hedge of greenery, a living thing in the springtime,
And we rush in eyes half-closed with coded messages;
Sometimes a cigar is a smoke.