No one else hears what is whispered in the dark.
You think your memory is listening,
but when you want it again
there's not the gold filigree of heat
only your heated wanting
You can conjure the quickening
but it is only a long yellow thread
in a field of blue
not the red flood of pulse
that snapped loose the world,
leaving us alone
in that hot dark.
Flip me over.
And again.
No one else hears what is whispered in the dark.
You think your memory is listening,
but when you want it again
there's not the gold filigree of heat
only your heated wanting
You can conjure the quickening
but it is only a long yellow thread
in a field of blue
not the red flood of pulse
that snapped loose the world,
leaving us alone
in that hot dark.