This new clitoral lightning is stitched beneath my
rosy skin,
and it's zapping you.
My hands are white horses. They learn the physical
language of your joyful cells at work;
they are alive with music,
they are alive with stars.
The flowers in your throat have
bloomed in my ears by midnight.
You drum and dance and hop and fly as I've
never seen you
drum and dance and hop and fly.
You do it all and more within me.
YOU ARE READING
PERCHED PARCHED BUTTERFLY
PoetryYour voice is the paint I take to the sky, splattering it all over, so they can all know you're nigh.
