The spines of books

digging into our skin

I feel them pressing in as we kiss

this joining of multiple loves

intellectual divine

The hot mess of your sex

panting pressing wet

black lines on white pages

neat and tidy between hard

tangible covers more solid than us?

It’s better not to get existential

while sheets are getting twisted

I’ve resisted these thoughts before

when the sun was filtering through

the stained glass of our tiny house

the currawongs were dipping their beaks

in the compost heap

knowing they’d struck worm gold

Every time I’ve repelled these thoughts

I’ve eventually come back

rappelling down that hare hole of fear

at losing this us this brilliant unbridled us

that could give that stained glass a run for its money

where we spiritualise sensuality

incense burning oil heating

we forget about this

often bleak situation

we’ve been thrust into

On that dance floor when we first met

I told you I was a poet

you spoke about the power of language

to give voice to those parts of us most integral

how without it we’re almost nothing

Almost

That night we got high

danced until sweat drenched

our feet ached

we collapsed onto your mattress

found more energy again

Now we push the books

off the edges of our bed

as we push each other

to the edges of ourselves

repelling the finite once more

ignoring the sound of it knocking

above the currawong calls