splicing us up,
all cuts and close-ups of kissing,
binding,
grinding,
we're a mess of crescendos as the track builds,
the humidity of us dragging its knuckles across the notes,
pulling me deeper inside it.
My pulse is percussion.
My heartbeats slam down fast with a drummer's rage, thrashing, rattling, warning me to slow down or my heart'll blow.
I can't tell if it's panic or prophecy,
but it's fierce enough to scare me.
I pull back,
a tambourine clashing in my lungs.
We stall out there, eyes chained,
and time doesn’t move?—
breath beating breath,
mouths raw,
lips pounding from the kiss.
We’re two bodies stuck in a pause.
“Jane,” I breathe out,
my fingers burying in his hair,
the city burning behind him,
windows glowing like ash tipped cigarettes.
“My middle name is Jane.”
He grins, lips wet and hot,
his nose brushing my cheek.
Then his eyes slip shut as he sinks into my mouth,
tongue tracing lazy.
This time, it's different.
He kisses me with a gothic ache,
