little bird

Was it the moon? Cut up like a dirty fingernail that twirled your wild thick hair until knots of silk plagued your moth eaten scalp?
I've missed unbinding those tangled wiry strands while laughing into your mouth, yet calling it a kiss. Open lipped and fresh, always with your pale slit eyes staring back without an obvious tenderness but with contemplative affection. Its these tiny indiscretions that i count on the scarce peaks and valleys of your flattened fists, [so much the same as a child pulling petals from a weed disguised as a daisy],
Rise
fall
Indecision strikes silent bells whose vibrations crawl up my legs, the long and the short, the nefarious nature of it taking residence in the hollows of conversation, Yet how female of me to assume anyone but myself can know when my speech breaks, when the words become less patient, when want exceeds need and each sentence becomes less about anything but feeling the movements of my jaw rubbing against your hands that reach and reach and reach but can never fully touch the smallest bits of myself that i keep forgetting to expose.
Those pale slit eyes never tire, they simply accept my naked viridity without any judgment
They break me down to color and shape, and i am left to wonder what the geometry of my face means
Again, a laugh, a kiss, your milk and bone cheeks, a second of thoughtless sleep ripped open with the abrupt awareness of your painfully beautiful perfumed youth
The prickling bells back down my thighs. I could live in you forever