The outlines were once bodies
blowing gently on bathroom floors
and empty wash house basons.
Carrying war wounds
and lifetimes of “I’m sorry, you know I can’t love you like that.” or “What we got is real”.
reaching to cradle one another.
Pulling at skin,
holding each other as they dance about.
Struggling to make sense
out of lifetmes of having hearts at the bottom of shoes
or floating in the tips of condoms
or singing love songs to themselves
while pretending that fingers are some dream lover’s dick thrusting violently.
Wrapped in a cold embrace listening to pretend voices that sound similar to their father’s-
Longing to be apart of the chorus of “I love you’s” present at some family gatherings.
And in some intentional way. . .
lusting to subvert that love
with cock rings, gags, and whips.
They exist in some wet nexus trying to crack light
and see how big the moon is
and how soft skin is
and what human looks like