it was the beat.
the beat started everything.
it was a particular kind and it was hitting against my heart
made the dark corner i was occupying darker
made my eyes heavier,
the edges of the lines bleeding out
each note charged a different blood cell,
a different part of my flesh
i felt alive
i felt thrilled
it was so hot.
i felt i was sweating away all of my beauty but
i felt so good
words have their own beat.
i listen to him speak a sentence, and i am fixating on the stops and starts in a way i haven’t before
the thrum of his voice is relaxing me against the gravestone we’re sitting on and i
am not so much hearing what he is saying
as much as i am hearing him say it
and i’m a little concerned about how i am obsessing about someone’s vocal patterns in a graveyard at 2 am
what is my life ?
there is more than one beat now–
we are one song
we are a complicated rhythm
in a tangle of sheets
and i am in a dark, hot space
still alive with the elation from cleverly plucked strings and drums but i don’t need them
because i have the symphony of moans and
that he’s giving me with every push of his hips and biting kiss and every small shudder
this beat, his beat
it’s taking me apart
piece by precious
while he himself comes undone above me
our music might rip this bed to shreds
Wouldn’t that be lovely?