‘Soft Speaker’

You taste like cold smoke in my lungs,

frigid groves and that knitted sweater,

caffeinated mornings and evenings inside,

gripping onto falsehoods to beg them to die,

and blueberries, sweet on my tongue,

wrist on my waist and leg between mine

sweat on your pillow and laughter chiming

in tune with the sound of your voice

and tell your mom they loved the gift,

and would you please hold me, dear?

You are visions of stars above skyscrapers,

thick bubbles, sore with affection and sleep,

bursting amongst the dark veins that glisten amongst the tired, lonely sky

white rooms and red hands,

medicine in my throat and cancelling an interview

and you are mine.

and you hold me like I am yours.

and I am so fucking tired of being second to last

bruised fruit underfoot and deeply-grooved seashells

but you pick me out, a whisper in the storm

an indefinite sprawling of tendons and tendrils

across my husk and my heart

and grant me respite, grant me hope.

grant me a hell of a good time.


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