In the cut

The lace and shadow of you hummed behind me, presence and menace at the end of the hunt. The finality in that slight drag of your heel, settling between my ankles and carving out that space that’s always been yours between my legs. 

You are something between a tower and a ghost, a storm and the last spatter of rain on a pavement before the last bit of sky touches down, finds the bottom of the dirt. 

I want you to dig into me the same way, the way water finds the seeds, making blooms break through concrete. 

My shoulders feel like a kettledrum with your breath above them, the rhythm of your quiet more palpable than your words. I want to bend into this, lean my cheek into the waterfall of your hair, crescent my spine back into the shape of you while the white knuckles of my cries crack below the sky of you. 

You move with grace, measure, the softness of you nothing but a hooked lure that is dragging me through it tonight, through your deep. I want to talk in tongues between your thighs, collapse from the burns that wrap around my hips and remind me I’m nothing but a cluster of nerves that reach back for you while running. 

You’re the knife. The black nails tracing the serrated bits in my spine, looking, taking my flesh between your fists and boxing me awake. 

The hollows in me are just whistling tunnels waiting for the shape of you to pass through, to fill, to mold me in your form. 

When I wake up from this tomorrow and the morning sees the tangle of our limbs I’ll wake you with my mouth, the taste of you already there before my eyes are open.