CREAKY FLOORS IN BETWEEN IT ALL
Bones & All
Inches from being touched, the tension separates, but also magnifies the magnification of the inevitable. The weight of lengthy bones push down on the ever so fragile lungs, pulling, pushing, feeling the weight and waiting into the night. Muscles aching, carefully moving throughout the vast escape, a full with no pillows. Not to wake or waste a night full of sleep. The crinkles on stolen white towels leaving imprints of a hotel logo across rosy red cheeks, and to note - a hotel in which will never be visited. Pitch black, except rays of iridescent light painting the walls of a room ready to be shared, shaped, shredded. From below, boards laid evenly, yet hastily making space for a bed to be made. Atop, paint shaped into a pattern much more complex than what’s happening in the middle. And in the middle, it’s simple enough to be touched with the tips of pulsing tongues.
It’s a mess worthy of tiny details being dug up from the oblivion. Legs tossed, quilts turned inside or out and arms swaying in ways that show the desirous need to keep it slow. Bones under the pressure of a million pulses by lips which could speak symphonies but choose to touch the skin in between a couple skin walkers. Nothing left to wonder, it is in it all and would be missed if the focus was on it all, and not what’s in between the creaky floors and creamy ceiling.
Inches from being touched, the tension separates, but also magnifies the magnification of the inevitable. The weight of lengthy bones push down on the ever so fragile lungs, pulling, pushing, feeling the weight and waiting into the night. Muscles aching, carefully moving throughout the vast escape, a full with no pillows. Not to wake or waste a night full of sleep. The crinkles on stolen white towels leaving imprints of a hotel logo across rosy red cheeks, and to note - a hotel in which will never be visited. Pitch black, except rays of iridescent light painting the walls of a room ready to be shared, shaped, shredded. From below, boards laid evenly, yet hastily making space for a bed to be made. Atop, paint shaped into a pattern much more complex than what’s happening in the middle. And in the middle, it’s simple enough to be touched with the tips of pulsing tongues.
It’s a mess worthy of tiny details being dug up from the oblivion. Legs tossed, quilts turned inside or out and arms swaying in ways that show the desirous need to keep it slow. Bones under the pressure of a million pulses by lips which could speak symphonies but choose to touch the skin in between a couple skin walkers. Nothing left to wonder, it is in it all and would be missed if the focus was on it all, and not what’s in between the creaky floors and creamy ceiling.