You wrap me around your arms,
You put your mouth on my mouth,
You hiss the word, “Love.”
Too bruised to speak, a drowning man,
My breaths come in gasps.
Outside the spring sun squints
At the dying blue jasmine in its terracotta.
I say, “Water.”
You say, “You should kiss me back.”
Your plumpness, your hidden curves,
They strangle me like grief.
In the cryptic centre of my head,
A voice recites a rhyme I read somewhere—
“We talked between the rooms,
Until the moss had reached our lips,
And covered up our names.”
What is driving my arms, my tongue
Is but a guided dream.
I close my eyes—
I picture you, a different you.
You slant your head,
Your eyes are half-shut,
You whisper in distaste—
“I want you here.”
But you will never find me here,
You did not bring me here.