I bent to kiss you goodnight,
but you begged me another poem.
You took these words, spoke them,
and told me I’m not needed anymore.
‘Kind sir, I thank you.
Return to your bed.
Your body is not what I sought here.’
You took my words with you
and left my flesh:
a quivering skin of egg yolk on a raspberry dish.
You welcomed my words and felt them stride on your hips.
Vowels poked you and softened.
Syllables breathed you,
taking care of the rest.
Your tongue threshed on every last serif.
Wet were their rhymes.
Warm was their breath—
in a meter echoing love made at three a.m.
Thanks for the dismissal,
I’m sleeping alone.
But my words aren’t;
They’re slipping past your lips now.
They’re repeating their meaning
to the shell nesting your soul.
That’s all these words were ever intended to accomplish.
Those words were your climax.
Now come find me in bed.
My body is your resolution,
unless you prefer coffee instead.