Husk And Raw Lips

The years will cough with grime...
And your face in its beauty will remain.
You will remain.
Your mustache.
Scars.
Lips like subtle beaks.
Your fingernails...
Gentle-
All of them.
The rough pores of your skin.
Your water-eyes.
The raw human-colour
of your lips.
Your soft hair,
covering the belly.
Brown arms,
the colour of beaten husk.
Sadness,
never bought,
but slipped into the ear.
Slowly, secretly,
as if on cue.
Your bones.
Malignant with a shudder.
The neck bent and broken
sideways-
Into the breast of a lover.
In the center of the almond skin,
blowing soft anger
on the texture of her rib.
Intersecting your heart and meridians
of loss,
into the sheets.
Into the muscle of the afternoon.
When summer yawns
translucent
lids of light
into your thigh
and mine.

The backs of my knees
become paper,
with barren warmth.
And salt erupts
under my soles.
My knees
uncurl,
sane.
But lift
like wings
separating
from the sinews
of shape.

I will hold you here
sexual and breathing.