I want to catch my breath on the spikes,
Steel-shod, barbed, plumed and so gracefully lethal,
That are your carefully etched words
Whispered across chasms
Whispered through the crannies in these walls
That we, the jaded children,
Have erected in monuments to our scars,
In monuments to our failures to move past them.
Oh, I am moving at a lame cat's pace
Towards the Great Crumbling
I am moving at supersonic speeds past
Potholes
And sinkholes
And anti-personnel mines
And in the blur that is my exuberance turning to stale air,
I wonder how many of those I've planted.
I want you, quietly in the dark of satin sheets
And the rivers of sweat on days too hot to leave
I want to steal the breath from you and taste
How you speak
I want to add salt to your words,
You to sweeten mine
I want to swallow in great heaving gulps
The rumbling baritone before you voice another iniquity
I want to drown in your smell before you lather on the aftershave
And most of all, oh most, great dream, of all
I want to find you so I can tell you this in halting, harrieds breaths...
...as my voice catches on the spikes of passion, steel-shod and barbed and plumed and oh so lethally between us.