He asks you,
“What does it feel like?”
A reasonable question;
But how do you answer?
It’s a constant, pressing need
A pilot light waiting to grow
Ignite to an inferno
How could you express that desire in words
Explain the claiming, aching hunger
That will devour you if not satiated
You pull him to you
With patience you do not have
And slowly describe
How the fire feels under your skin
Do you bite?
Do you beg?
Because language is sighs and grunts,
Moans and screams
Tangles of limbs and sweat,
Fingers in hair,
Squeezing around skin,
Pinning the claws against his back.
A roar that could be yours or his,
Or never have happened at all
Yet in the after,
In the quiet stillness
Where time could be measured in seconds,
And still all feel the same
He still wants to know.
So, you suppose,
You will have to show him
All over again
Until he finally extinguishes the flame
“I don’t like how the word feels in my mouth.”
He tells you,
“I don’t like the shape of the words.
I could call you so many things, my dear,
But they don’t sound right coming from my lips.”
You look at him, confused, as his fingers trail to your chin,
Tilting your head up, oh so gently
“I want to ask the question.
I want to hear the sounds that you emit.
The words stuck in your throat,
As I drive sense from your brain.
I want to feel you around me
As I make you say you’re mine.
More than your agreement,
I want your affirmation.
I want to taste the air as you call yourself
It sounds so much better in your voice
To hear you say, or try to say,
In every way you want me.”
Does the liquor bring my name to your lips
The taste of smoke
The sweetness of the oak
Does it remind you of me
Does drinking make you think of me
Of your whispers in my ear
My skin under your hands
My softness against your strength
Because I think life has done me an unkindness
In that those people that meant the most
Came back, eventually
In one form or another
The grief both dissipated and compounded by a never ending presence
And time flows like honey
All at once, more quickly than you anticipate
Then slowly, drip by drip
And I’m watching the end of the spoon, waiting, as it crystallizes before my eyes
Waiting for your message
Why am I only this eloquent when I’m not sober
The words, the emotions, buried
Like the French long forgotten in that December so far past
Je voudrais parler avec toi
Je voudrais passer de temps avec toi
Parce que tu me manques
And I know you will come back
But you know I will leave
I have left you before
Forgotten you in summer nights
Shut you against the cold of this city
So I’m left with that song
The lick of the guitar
The taste of rye an assault against my throat
Your name on the tip of my tongue
And swallowing it down and down and down
And pretending I don’t miss you
Until you appear again, with that simplest of questions
“How have you been?”
You are like an itch in the back of my skull
A place I can not scratch without you there
No matter how much I pretend I’m getting over you
So, my love, tell me.
Is it just the bourbon talking
Or do you miss me too?