statues.

the kiss-me eyes are too much to take when adorned w/ leather couches. and somehow, underneath toes, the swivels of his feet seem to crumple like leaves- the tensing of my arms full blown proof of this endeavor. yet sighs melt like chocolate, like marble resting on my shoulder, and for the first time i can't take it. the quivering of my legs from nervousness (but we are used to the shoulders; the eyes; the looks) seems to be sort of a signal: not yet? not ready?

and hands continue to climb up my back.

bedroom: her smile still haunts these sheets- these pictures that are splashed w/ her face and her fingers and her arm around his. but when he rests his head on my shoulder- "i can feel your heart beating"- i know her podium has shriveled to dust; to something remote and desolate.

so yes, the heart wants him to be horizontal, but the mouth can not always comply.

and i am frozen in a seed with him: shoulders spread out for the fitting of pink things (a locked kiss? a rose bud?); hands holding his head like wings plucked of feathers.

"in the room the women come and go talking of michaelangelo"