Christening Of Skin

Picby Marc Lionhart29 Oct 2014

Spent the hours carving a mural onto your body, with talons laden with your sweat
You hum as I bite you softly on your glistening breasts
I am learning your code, unhinging all sense of isolation, playing with you like a reed-less saxophone on a soaked street corner, broken calluses for fingertips, playing at the gutter with a few pennies strewn immorally within a ruined trilby hat
The music drives me, and I finish as it does
We burn together as my blood proceeds through the pours of your skin and deep into your soul, as we fuse, stitched to one another with thread woven from impurity
We call to the above, our hands interlocked in a fog, coiled and intricate
We do not fear the grip of mortality while we caress the beads gluing us together, we feel christened, beaten but replenished
I ask a group of physical questions of your curving body as it contorts around the shape of my frame, that, them, the configuration we create
I feel a tidal shift within my chest, you, the moon, throw me back and forth, an ephemeral storm in bursts and fits
I do not feel hollow anymore
I feel risen, but grounded simultaneously as I challenge the notion of prophecy
And now, your marked back arches
I continue to bleed, through my eyes I open the entire world to us to peer in, but close them swiftly and avoid third-party attachment, just us, in this preordained and predictable world
I can see them hating us for what we have done to the mundane, and how we've fragmented all that was known about connections
Yeah I'm working harder now
I'm testing the clocks, checking to see if we have crossed into another dimension
But as I look over, I bleed out onto the floor, next to you, and we sleep until the morning comes...