This is the place where we love.
Where you are like comfort food,
Resting openly upon a small breast,
Like fingerprint hearts on a dusty Pontiac.
This is the place the fire is censored.
Where the only cries are that of your voice,
That comes through in reverse,
On an old mixed tape.
In the blackness of my winter,
I am hunger less and without answer.
Will you have a match?
When your light sputters and dies.
This burden you carry like an ant in June.
Tonight, I turn back the clock,
I am without reaction and wings.
The hands move, like swings in an empty playground.
Where we trip on the road,
And get up to brush the spiders off.
This is where we create love,
Bodies pass like masses of air,
Creating a storm that runs through our veins.
Leaving us with stillness,
In search of the sun.