of straddling tongues and more

my memory of you is of salivating tongues. and tasting the queer geometries of us.

didn't we both have our favorite holes. 

it is hard though to decide what those tongues did to each other.

it wasn't just 

sex.

eat,

crawl,

scratch,

knead,

poke, trace,

twist, nudge;

a hundred verbs would have to come together to begin to describe what they did to us.

those
straddling
tongues.

there had never been a body whose entire breadth of existence and states of matter I had been so intimate with. 

you...

are my own.

when you slept,

i would sync our breaths

so that I took yours in with every one of mine.

i tasted the nails you once clipped,

and did not you wonder,

why I kissed you so much?

it was delicious,

refreshing,

to drink your kisses.

even now the thought of it makes me drool, and renders my tongue restless.

in the places that I visit,

I practice what it would be to cup the back of your head and enter you.

tongue first.

it would be fine if you ever got paralyzed, and needed to be cleaned up when you shat yourself.

part of me wants to hose you down right now.

a thousand kinks that exist in the bizarreness that sexuality is,

to paint, pee, and pet,

to dirt, drink, and drag,

to pretend to eat,

to lick, to lash,

to cooking for you a full meal for cash,

a thousand kinks that exist in the bizarreness that sexuality is,

I want to do with you right now but most of all,

it is 

the straddling tongues that I want.

  

some worlds are just insane

in an un-invented corner of your mind,

lies the center of your being.

it is not a happy place.

for here lie your gods,

buried but not dead,

still holding the strings of your fate;

weaving uncensored rules of censorship

telling you all that you hold holy,

but it is not a sacred place.

here born are the mad mutterings,

that underly your logic,

the illusions of being valid,

but it is not an accurate place.

it is here that sits the jury,

deciding the verdict of your becoming;

for you may desire to be,

but it is not a charitable place.

here spawned are the reasons you try so hard,

and yet find that nothing has come out of it.

you may have gotten but not what you want,

but it is not a not a blind a place.

starts here the idea that that there is a ‘you’,

that faulty burden you wish wasn’t yours,

still substantial as identities might make you feel,

it is not, a very substantiated a place

it is here your insistence to not have died at all,

has created the illusions of your continuity.

and your histories have already dug in their roots,

and rendered it not so fertile a place.

coalesced here are all the times you were hurt,

and unknowingly copied its ways.

it is safe to learn the ways of the pain,

but it is not a very kind a place.

live you will, through the twistings of it,

live will your friends through its claim on your ways;

and once it is all done, it is here that you crumble,

succumbing to not having seen this place.