Howling

Of course the world
Will not stop spinning
Its tragedies
And gems of victory,
Its web of lies
And networks of support,
Its tales of sadness
And stories of triumph.

One does not expect
It to do less than it would
Or more than it should.

Bitch, please.

But there are those times
When I feel like
All time has ebbed
To nothing but
A half-forgotten throb
Like the autonomy
Of heartbeat and breathing,
Like that pulse in my wrist
That I lose sense of
When you take my hand
And rub a lazy thumb
Over my Mount of Venus
Or squeeze the Mount of Mars.

Bitch, please.

I would love to be insouciant,
Uncaring, unbewildered
By this sudden warp of blood
That speeds the spinning
Of my personal world
Of blood and bone and flesh
When your mouth meets mine
And our teeth clash betwixt
The lash of tongues
No hunger can match.

Bitch, please.

The world keeps turning
At its own measured pace
Even if my personal space
Comes apart in your arms,
Cocooned by you, impaled
On you, swallowing you
Whole and with nary a chaser
To see you through that journey
Into me, to my most secret atoms,
To the seed that grows
Only for your hands,
For your body,
To reach your soul,
To hand you mine.

Bitch, please.

Get up
From that bed
Hold me, walk to me,
Inflame me again.
I am here, beside you,
My world in suspended animation,
My self all in strips
Of sharp shards
Digging into feet
Unwilling to walk
Away from you.

Bitch, please.
Please be with me.

I would wait
Until the world
Tires of its rhythm,
For the incessant to cease
And desist even as
My whole self
Sits on the brink
Of a pause so monumental
I resent our world its march
Through time and space
Without me.
Or you.

Bitch, please.