The Current

I hope you’re never self-conscious about the way you speak

the way you’ve spoken

because I may never have the nerve to tell you outside the format of a poem

that the sound of your voice

turns me on,


the way it crinkles without cracking like the vast empty waters of a

bubble bath and

holds vibrancy like a baby,

weeks old,

a new thing

it feels like you’re lying on my chest

entangling our shoelaces

warmth uncontrollably pouring in through my shirt pockets

you put your hands there and squeeze

it feels like rain on telephone wires

buzzing with content


empty conversations

we will only remember we used to talk often enough

for saliva to drip from our restless tongues

it feels like camping by the river

with one sleeping bag

and no pajamas

watching the water change infinitely with time

I wonder if the same two molecules ever

brush against each other’s backs more than once

before finding a new companion

and I want to be more than the water with you

I want to press my lips against yours

hear the trembling of your voice flow like

broken sink faucets

you can put me on the kitchen counter

you can put me to bed in the most tranquil way

you can put me anywhere you want me

drowning out useless noise

heavy breaths, quick and quicker

your tone soft and shielding like

looking up at an ocean wave

I say hello, you

come here

I want to be wet with you, please

don’t stop

don’t protect me from the current.


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