By | 1 November 2018

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
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

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