If Shakespeare Wrote Our Play
the frozen breath would stain
the night sky black,
as it swallows the harmony
of a lone cricket choir.
your skin reflects
our shroud of sweat,
your teeth sacredly protest
across my naked shoulders
in this Moët room.
The half moon comes
to rest its rays,
casting a former shadow
on fingers that climb my ribs
like desperation clings to the ladder.
A want to understand
what the other pretends
through eyes, an impatient
glance in a moment
we see a reflection;
my arms braced back
hands full of drunken awkwardness
your fingers imbedded
above my chest, owning flesh
tension can only releases this ache
while your lips search for sound
stopped by times aged hand
coming to rest on our nakedness
(as we become giants)
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