hush II - 14/04/21

I want to kiss your tissue paper lids -
feel your lashes brush my lips with the flinch of it -
then draw back and let you look
with your unrelenting look and I’m
rent, centre to surface,
you do it again.

Every time.
You’re devastating,
destroy me;
I don’t mind.

I want to trace the swell of your arm and linger
where it’s tickly -
hear you squeak and suppress it quickly -
kiss the joint of your wrist, try to circle it
with too-small fingers, (surreptitiously)
graze the white that matches mine.

I know I’ll fall.
I could curl up to sleep
in your clavicle;
I feel so small.