If I could tell you the stories of falling leaves
locked behind my lips, under my tongue
if I could pass my words to you through sighs
If I could breathe out my myths into your mouth
your ears, your skin, your hollow places
I would be better.
If I could capture autumn in a bottle
feed it to you drop by drop
slipping down your throat like honey
burning to your core like lava
lighting up every nerve bundle with desire
I would be stronger.
If I could trace your flesh in vines and
map out the secrets of you and I
journey the stepping stones of your spine
roll over the miles of your curves
and plot the points of every roll of your hips
I would be alive.
Instead I wait for the death of summer
an end to heat, to the dry spell cracking my heart
for you to walk through woodsmoke and mist
your whispers to reach out to me
and your fingers to grasp tightly,
for the season to turn into ours