jizz

     gossamer
 

threads of batter happen upwards,
 

      it
 

is a jutting meta of my bit lip, your toe-tense
 

      shimmers,
 

failed asceticms and our parabolic love - the
 

       novel
 

arches that hue the noonlight with taffeta devotion
 

       still
 

shooting clean in the air over our heads,
 

         to
 

be a peeling off of my semiotics, an unpasteurized
 

         icewater
 

welled in the bedrock of your lips
 

         and
 

pumped into the still life of an afternoon,
 

         a
 

beautiful effort, because your last frost is a
 

         glazework
 

release against the grain of my stubble, it is also a jot
 

         of
 

your brief liberation expressed in a purity, in a filament of clean
 

         transparencies,
 

in iterations of me cracked by your whip hand, and it'll linger a
 

         sweetness
 

for days, dried consummation, but the act inevitably cures us into a
 

          chapped
 

longing for the part of us we lose to an emission of love, curdles us
 

          like
 

wefts and warps of one another, our limbs artless, answer to my emptied
 

          lips
 

spent stalling, mute and caustic, tracing the spill
 

          on
 

your mouth, and I always eat that shit up like ice cream, only to begin
 

          a
 

mad two-step of finger-skips on your
 

          gash
 

of thigh containing mine like a parenthesis, distracting me from the pain
 

          of
 

my inability to find the sum of our
 

          flesh.