Moments, Movements

Mouth

I don't write poems
to girls. Especially not
to you.
Instead I am biting/have bitten
neck, shoulders, arms, _____ , lips,
back, thighs, _____ , hips, every single space
is another moment with you.
And I am biting/have bitten
hard/harder just
like
you
asked.
But I can't break the skin no matter how
I try.

Hands

When your fingernails were inside my chest
I wished they weren't.
Not because I didn't like it
But more because it was the closest
you and I
have been/will ever be.
"Stop," I wanted to tell you.
"I'm losing too much blood."
I only said your name instead.
And I watched your fingers like
ten conductor's batons
make an orchestra of me.

I am an orchestra

The movements were in impossible time.
10/8, 11/4, 93/6.
Sometimes they were heartbeats,
sometimes they were hips.

I wanted to be more
so
badly. I wanted to be a symphony
But for you, it was just about
the moments and the movements
each one fading into the next
never coherently coming together
as one complete mass; or
a skeleton of a song
never sang.

There is so much
to tell you.
Like that I don't lie on my pillow
because it still smells
the way you do.