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.
