Part Two: The Only Time I’m Home is With Your Hands On My Hips, Descending
I typically live at the centerfold of misery,
some semblance of my mind stapling the pages of my body
to the rest of these articles of dissociation.
Yet, at your touch, this body is a home again
for every portion of me that quakes and thunders,
withdrawing all reason to run from the sound.
Your fingers trace bone, nails trailing with brutal beauty
simply a moment in their wake and the tension
brings my skeleton once more to tremble
at the altar of your home, too. This palace of flesh
both parallel and perpendicular to mine as we collide.
Darling, my darling, what happens when our houses
are one? When they are transferred through
the rhythm that you beat into my thighs?
Will I still know my own? Or is your touch the only key
to the threshold of this being? No matter. I beckon you.