sgel

oh, I know
                   that sight lingering in the eyes
               that heavy breath,
           those off-hand truths spoken
                                                      in and out
                                                                 of context 
that gently self-loathing
                                  emergence from the bedroom

the Sunday morning, next
      as you rummage through your own vomit
         a brief flutter in a spate of normality

the waking up early, cold secrets
that soft melting 
                     in the corners of the eyes
that horrible crash 
                               of parallels
oh, yes
             I've known it

that intimate and (unavoidable) forever
that trip to the shower 
cold
I've felt it;
                  I've wrung myself out
                  down someone else's
                                                   drain
 
That shattering quiet, that
              shared omission

that piercing stillness --
that nervous withdrawal,
I've also 
               agitated it

that space
           alone, afterwards

that fumble with the light/s off
that listening for the right timing
that 9am escape trick, I've also
                                                  attempted

I've spent Saturdays 
                            not eating
and Sundays watching
                                      sad films
just to hold some skin afterwards
                                                       - trust me, it's not
                     worth the wait.

I can't help but berate
                               my tired nostalgia

I can't help but want

unfolding infinities
my future my past

Anawhata - 2

I love how open we become
the words flood from your head
(and mine from my fingertips)
your senses made manifest
a private exhibition for my curiosity
(mine published on the world-wide web,
a public reassurance for my inner existentialist)

Anawhata - 1

I love how wild you become
blinded by a vision of white,
your forearms braced around my chest
in hap-hazard triangles,

how far my back can turn to meet you and
the way your hand sometimes creeps up to my throat,
the window almost always open and
space flooding in, the night
flooding over us - and even the
ocean crashing softly in the distance
- or sometimes just cars -
the manic pursuit of exhaustion,
followed by the beautiful rest...

waking in the morning
and finding ourselves still skin-to-skin.