these knuckles carving my cottony jaw are your pink ones massaging my lymph nodes in the soapy shower, this heat running down my scalp, my back, is yours, a sheet of fire falling from my crown and gathering at the valley of my knolly chest to the slim inner knot of my still unpierced navel. these fingers brushing over each swollen pimple each brownbruised scar are your long thing ones, the spliced skin on your practised fingertips blessing each budding spring nodule. these palms cupping my cheeks are yours, wide and warm like they were made for holding my face to yours.
i want to hold these hands in mine and absorb all the kinetic energy you have stored in them, drawing graphs and plucking guitars and throwing frisbees and tapping on keyboards - all of these i will make dissolve into my lame hands. i want to feel the work on your palms, feel the practice, feel the careful tenderness with which you (would) hold me like i'm something new, i'm a new experience your practised hands have never handled before.
i deserve kisses as roseblooms on the vein-veiled skin of my eyelids, so soft and thundery,
fluttery fairy-spun glass, fae footsteps have stamped out the crows feet and hung my double lids low on the horizon of my bloodless waterline
how can you not see this masterpiece, this sculpture God has tenderly moulded right before your eyes?
YOU ARE READING
i'll never be a poet
Poetryand here's the pretentious proof an ongoing anthology of the poetry of nobodi.
