One or both of us is impatient though he speaks
and then doesn’t. Our eyes are wandering beyond
our tongues. Lashes into my cheek looking like sunbeams.
And then off again into a vaguer proximity.
Pulling pushes where we are gouged into sensation
(or not, as it happens). A deeper ache from the withdrawal
of those hands, or worse, their absence (from the beginning);
a plummet. Too full of hunger. ( Yawning with it )
His breath is in my throat. I’m filling with stale life.
Suffocating for more. And still he says nothing else,
though there is a moment- my lungs heave back
his air I move my lips and steal his voice. His frown
so ungentle;
I think he was afraid.
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