Are my words worth much to a poet?

But there is more than lust in the folds of my dry lips, wanting to brand themselves into your side of your hips.

Collar bones filled with names, finger tips collected in rows to map out all of all the traced lines before me, all the routes that led from your belly to your knees, wrong turns and abandoned cars left at your ankles. 

I walked.

I have circled my way around the softness of your thigh, dug my hooks into your pelvis, climbed up the stair of your rib cage, and now I stare you in the eye, out of breath.

The rise and fall of your chest casting shadow on the wall, and your chin upward, as you imagine being somewhere else.

Smoking shooting stars and letting the ashes collect in my hands.

I licked them and hoped the star dust would send me flying, but I laid myself into the shape of a half moon and whispered “Am I there with you?”

Maybe I’m different, I don’t day dream about a new body to burn myself into, I day dream about the night you lay yourself into me and feel at home.

Author's Note

A little rusty and too many feels.