Updated: Dec 31, 2020
What is longing if not the song gracing Eve’s lips? Her humming chokes on millenia but once the serpent gasps for breath, you realize silence has morphed into an unfamiliar being. And moonlight trips over caterpillars making love in my pores, their moans accenting her symphony.
What is longing if not wishing on the north star from a dry lagoon? Crickets gossip of dust eddies that read tarot cards in her liver, divining farewells from your blue orchid lips. And the only cold word I can form without my ankles cracking is “goodnight”.
What is longing if not wrapping rubber bands around your toes? So they turn the echoing purple of nightingale shoals when you spin with enough abandon that the earth seems to cease turning. And it will only halt when you seep into the horizon, knowing your vision will never still again.
What is longing if not pumping electricity into your chest? We are only machinery by association yet violin strings ripple my forearms, cutting deep enough that bone is a lightening sky. And when you dance against someone who can’t read your palm without glancing at watermelon seeds on your forehead, you’re lost.
What is longing if not joy hummed from burned tongues? You sway atop a rusting bridge with lace-edged beams but if you dare to jump, that silence will orphan your ear drums. And its melody will simmer through your breastbone so time-rippingly loud that only Sound’s corpse is left, begging for cremation in a softening monsoon.
For what is longing if not a goodnight crooning “I never meant for this”?