My mind is a landscape of hunger, a constant singularity of need. And I’ve nothing to hold you, except my dreams. I latch onto you there in some unsayable location where our bodies take inventory of each other.
You’re the perfect conjecture. I try to make your handsome face a Puritan idea, but get distracted by your Dimmesdale mouth.
You speak to me in tongues, under a ghost light, your
hands made of shadows. You lay your artifacts across my map. I address you in sighs. You follow me down, like a trail. Oh how relentless is my South.
You take up every area of my terrain, cells, lungs,.and those unmentionable spaces between decadence and devilish, contours and curves
I swallow your beauty, and breath you deep inside.
Warmth. Storm. Release. Lost in Orion’s belt and the
makings of one hell of a dream.
Photo courtesy of Esquire and my celebrity crush James Purefoy
JP, if you read this, don’t make it weird, unless you want to.
Hubba. Delusional, hubba.