Waves flow on the concrete brink
just the way our lips combined.
You should paint tears down my cheek
so maybe I can give it a try.
But I don’t do that anyway.
Lost in hands and the heat of sun
we’d walk for miles in aridity.
And you mutter splintered moans
carried away in the silken sheets.
But you don’t love me anyway.
If I don’t stay
we’ll make this place but a tenement.
Heat of passion, we melt to one
just like porcelain
fired into life and delicate
until the closure circles in.
But I’m a pessimist anyway.
You’re in your dress, distinct and blue
translucent and shining like porcelain.
I’m hassled to know what words to use
on this night and impasse I’ve fallen in.
But I’m the wordsmith anyway.
Aberrant life made by hand
and sparked into being
just like porcelain.
But to maybe dream,
to maybe fall into fluent sleep.
To maybe love in this way
and to simply savour this day.
Or just to feel in any way.