I don't want you to let me dream of you
where blood beats in perfect pitch
and drawn breath releases upon
your skin as the heated wind of
a gathering storm too close to home
where I know you'll need so much more.

You'll tell yourself it's for the best,
that it's only the pang of leaving behind
a sweet soul that wasn't what you needed.

I can't see our scars there now
or what I should have said before,
it would be too wrong to take away
the pain of those reeling ghosts
embodying my body with your own.

Or to see your thighs bowed open
and glistening in the dark as I taste,
it's proof that all fruits hold everlasting secrets
of countless atoms flowing ambrosia rivers
unaware of the curious fingertips
reaching to claim its spilled sweetness.

Reaching for that rush to torch us,
to pull a cry from our throats that
no longer resembles a lover's plea,
no metre or any known language
but something like a chant to old gods.

I suspect we only cry out like that
when suddenly ripped from the womb
or when touching too close to the ether.

I don't want you to let me dream of you
where mouths close over one another
under the vast spinning fiery wheels of stars,
bodies writhing and touched by glows that
have lived far longer than these little deaths,
such furies aren't meant to survive for too long.

You'll tell yourself it's only for the best,
that it's the pang of a bright ember
still too dangerous to hold on to.

I can't see our secrets or sins there anymore
or the tears my lips should've tasted,
it would be too wrong to just take away
what should've bloomed from that ache when
embodying your vulnerable body with my own.

Or to pull away from the thunder in your chest after
that slowly becomes a soft murmur speaking
through flesh when words can mean too much,
it's proof that we hand over more than bodies
spilled together and so unaware that all
of our aches and secrets have become ciphers
exchanged through the smallest ripples in skin.

Reaching for that storm and light to take us,
to pull a cry from our shivering lips
that no longer resembles a lover's plea,
no known cadence or any fluent tongue,
but something like a chant to our primal selves.

I suspect we only cry out like that
when suddenly ripped from the earth
or when a flash burns too close to the ether.

I don't want you to let me dream of you anymore,
such a tender and furious need will never
be meant to survive too long on its own,
that's what we can always tell ourselves....

It was always for the best,
that it's the pang of a pain that
we can soon just leave behind.