tell me about these twenty-three days
tell me how to quiet my pessimist,
the one who tells me a kiss is just one cavernous mouth on another,
hot but empty.
tell me it could be a revolution, instead.
tell me this is heart stopping, gut rocking.
tell me you’re here with me,
that you feel it too.
when it’s hard to pull away, squeeze my hand and sink back into me.
tell me how to live in the moment,
what grounded means,
how to turn off the spinning spinning spinning
of my libra stellium vata brain.
tell me you live in air too but we can hold hands and jump into something deeper.
tell me i can keep writing about all the stelliums and stars and swirling openness
and tell me it's still new.
tell me the work i did before you is enough to keep you close,
that maybe i was good enough all along but just not
where someone believed it.
tell me how to fuck you so you can feel it in each nerve ending and even
deeper, after, into your marrow.
tell me when to stop and when to begin again.
tell me when you lose your breath.
suck my finger after it enters you.
let it stay. keep it warm.
squeeze my hand, now draw it to your thigh.
tell me you will fuck me to my cold, rotten core,
the one i believe has lived in me since childhood.
tell me it's all in my head,
that you taste warmth and sweetness.
use your hands, your hips pressing into the shape i've made for you.
give me all of the kale, the arugula, the swiss chard.
add some stinking goat cheese.
tell me this is the best breakfast you have ever had,
that even though it's high enough,
this fire escape is a haven
you don't want to jump from.
writing poems for new lovers has never been a skill of mine
but i’m trying.
do it before this takes a new shape.
“my heart, my fist is on fire for you.
good tender loving fucking trouble."
let me in, let me stay.