After Eight

It’s after eight my love, a time when we are seated

Together, thigh bones touching. It feels kinda right

That our flesh wants to touch at night. The heat

where our thigh bones meet is our body’s

Way of saying what we cannot or will not.

The tongue tied twisting of words in skulls

Instead of tongues in mouths. When even the

Simplest things like, “I am here, here my love,”

Cannot be said. Unite is just untie rearranged.

How to unknot the rot that our thigh bones

know nothing of? Our flesh’s longing is

the answer I say. It’s not all about sex you say.

I want our bodies to knot together like rope,

Your dick is talking and omg there is no hope.

I say your name like the way it used to sound.

You stop and look at me, what did you say.

I say your name like the gentle sweet person

It beholds and a smile comes across your face.

I lace my fingers into yours, a knot of

Another kind that binds and preserves and

lets butterflies fly. Your long boned fingers

Come to my face and trace the lines

Of everything you know it to be; imperfect

And human and creasing with each passing year.

We pass up the urge to move fast. What we want

We can wait for, because the moment has caught

us both unawares and makes us perfectly aware

that it is after eight and sometimes knots are a gate.

- By Michael Stolt

#112

After Eight

Spring