October

The air outside us is sharp, and heavy with moisture,
and we start to walk,
and we match each other’s rhythm,
a pair of lust-drunk metronomes,
where getting to know you better is the unthreading of a well-worn coat,
and gripping your waist thrills,
– ardour –
never having realized the reach of one arm swallows you,
or how small that makes you,
and how hungry that makes me;
and I am so very hungry.

It is October, late in the month.
It is always dark here.

Sometimes the darkness cleaves fulsomely, anxiously.
Others, it hangs on your eyelids like heat:
exciting, soporific, but most of all an incantation to burrow into each other’s skin.

It is late October, and we walk, in syncopated beat,
until we stop; until we can not stop.

I turn to you, or you turn to me, or is it that we both turn to each other,
and I don’t want to say, and neither do you.

Categories Culture

Oisín Breen is a Dublin-born writer who has spent much of the last decade living in Edinburgh. In recent months, he has replaced his morning orange juice with grapefruit. He also staunchly rejects the idea that everything is art.

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