Phere[moans], don’t fly so close

by Charlotte E. Wilde

I’m a kamikaze, a whirlwind of mistrust, distaste, can’t keep the pace with my thoughts between the hours of another 4am solitary (but let me lick this music-mind clean). You slip down my tongue like an impulse buy or a midnight snack– sweetest when I’m not allowed. And can’t we all agree that what happens between  thighs should stay there?

Let me teach you how to love me: unconditionally and at arms length; recklessly and on the side. Playing it cool was not a forté of my lo-fi fantasy. I can’t help but question if the thrumming in my chest was replaced by a double-bass in 2006 and has been tricking hapless humans into believing they see themselves in my pulse ever since.

You trace the pathways of my veins and lines of ex-marks-the-spot leftover from times when I was living. Do I hate myself to leave you the necessary room? I decide to love myself instead, and ignore my body when it scolds me for the lie. I came so hard with you on my mind, but mindfullness says ‘take it slow’ for sexual tension mounts like the physical downfall of our metaphysical touch.

Yes, I’ve been thinking. Thinking I may be the static electricity to your triboelectric effect; spread thin (hip-bone maverick), a peanut-butter and logic sandwich in which you are the surrounding brea(th) and I am lying jelly-still but trying on metaphors like Sunday’s best. Your whisper brings me back: asking if I like the idea of you more than the reality, when you know full well the impossibility of attaining the apex of this imaginary. I say nothing, but I write in cursive down your spine– this spot, as yet un-inked, the canvas of our possibility.

At night cyclical thoughts spin out in technicolor sublime, the waiting has me writhing, flying headfirst into future’s windo[pains] where I thought I was Iccharus and you were my father’s wings.