The Orwells

I watch how you are made.
sedated to The Orwells slurring syllables
In a bluesy baritone, the inflamed postules
of your dry mouth are imbedded with the
nucleus or my grainy elbows on which you gnaw
in reflex                      like a dog in heat, like aswelling
spatial star engulfed in oxygen, the way you kiss is
black mold stained chaos falling through
Desert prairies in search of thunderstorms that remind you
Of your rural childhood and ephemeral confidence

You would die to be the most intimate man there ever was,
to have that title attached to your name, a lover, lover, lover,
embodiment of warm hands and sacrificial mouth

Instead, you are a rumour. You know this.
you breathe deeply, face up towards a ceiling
with watery eyes and an overpowering sense of inadequacy

A tired moaning, a sugary distrust, you roll over and
reach for me with grabby hands – why do I love you?
you ask every day and i say because
I have seen how you are made.

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