the earth drips with moisture

i breathe you out
the way i breathed you in:
musky, silent, imperceptibly sweet,
mingled with rain,
your veins carrying raindrops
straight from the sky
into the heart.

i cup my hands,
pool the torrential outpour in them,
arms outstretched
to the god of thunder
and his throne on olympus;
and i imagine
you cupping my breasts.

the hands feel warm and soft,
tropical islands in the sea of desire,
holding me in the near-darkness.
the earth drips with moisture
and i drink the rainwater
as an offering
to love.

since before i loved you

since before i loved you,
i dreamt of your eyes:
two slices of blue gulf
stripped along the horizon,
glistening
with a million years of rain.

i wanted them before i knew you,
i’m sure.

only they can penetrate me
with the force of a thousand burning suns.

i can feel them on my lips
through the sound of your breathing.

i love therefore i am.

———————————

sometimes i find it tough to show you that you’re the only one that matters in this life. and here you are: here i am.

heat is in me

heat is in me,
humidity clawing out:
torrential,
silent,
gushing;
the promise of london rain unspoken.

birds fail to chirp outside your window,
heat stifles life
and i
take up the whole of your bed;
and time.

so there!

expendable
and with the blurring quality of a spanish sunset
i ought to stop dreaming of the miracle
they [nora knows] don’t happen ever

no fool but i expects
a man to build a roof over the pedestal
everyone knows statues have no eyes to worry about rain

sleep like trauma washing over me washing dishes
as if salt could wash away a man-made stain

what call you this
a fading jaded tan line of black bags under the eyes
what am i now
a landing strip stripped bare so there!

the world off your shirt

i won’t wait on you,
but not because i don’t want to:
maybe i would have done on any other day—

that’s not to say that i don’t hate
standing at the train station waving at a departing train.
it’s not me, you understand?
in me there’s always an impulse to chase it.
just water, baby, to chase it. 

just water, a silent drizzle of impending rain:
it’ll wash the world off your shirt—
and i will smell crisp cotton again.