The Only Time My Mind Goes Blank is With Your Hands On My Hips, Descending

 

There is a moment before your mouth descends,

the pulse of breath against tender flesh, 

when my body craves for you to mold your name into my skin

to scrape teeth and tongue and engrave initials

like sweethearts do in bark. Mark me. 

Turn my porcelain to raspberries, and raspberries to blue. 

Make me yours. With that laugh scoffed into my center

as my chest quickens, back crescented against the blue sheets. 

Turn me into the moon. Imprinted with a man’s face, 

your face. Make me see stars and echo their calling. 

Can you hear them? Can you hear the night sing to us?

Darling, don’t you know my rupture is the only thing

that can make that go away? So, go a little slower, 

make it last a little longer, before I break.

Before you pull back all the pieces to make me whole.