It wasn’t that she was trained to listen
or that I was taught to speak,
it was how both of us knew
that we were going to
sneak the silence from these walls
and burn down the burden of civility.
Tongue in cheek, cock in twat, boy and girl
playing man and woman playing boy and girl.
Eyes tripping down stares
and up stairs,
ripped pages from books
sailing stolen tongues towards throats.
Get to a man’s heart
through his stomach I’ve been told.
We didn’t care about the burning coffee
or the belching guests snooping
through her husband’s medicine cabinet,
nor the record skipping its one trick
pony song over and over. And again,
we were throwing thigh music,
on the couch, on the desk, on that spot
on the floor where countless wingtips
had run the berber carpet thread
bare like our rosy pink backs, fresh
racing with sweat and the echo of youth
through a scar on her knee from falling in
the shower and hitting, perfectly,
that pink porcelain soap holder.
Gaping her once taut god-canvas
that let the open drain taste
the iron and pre-ripe wine
of burgundy ambrosia.
It wasn’t that he never listened,
she said, or that he never understood
what she said,
was that he never felt
whatever it was he was dreaming of
It wasn’t that either.
It was a thousand unspoken promises
about pacts to go back
to play peter pan longer
than our fathers,
to put our shiny dreams on shelves
just a bit higher.
She owned the room, but
I wrote her that night’s sky
with pockmarks and pinpricks,
shining hot white light through
that black canvas cover,
rejecting reality and really really
believing that just for a second,
if only a second,
those seductive night’s
holes were the scars of lightning
thrusting bolts that brought
pure chance to the solid soil.
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