Passion, Aliens, and Spitfire

By Dani Rose

You commented on my post

slipped in my DMs with grace

landing directly on my face… I mean, heart…yeah.

pinning my desires to the floor, 

stinging them into submission

with your alien theories,

spitfire-surprise, and a top hat 

that was nowhere 

but in your voice.

I could hear your voice all night,

states away, turning water to air,

drowning in your life force

knowing there’s 

no way can I stay away.

You caught me at a breaking point,

or point of break 

— between semesters —

an em-dashed appositive

tying my time tight,

not as tight as it will be

— swollen, when my fingers…

I mean… fuck… your eyes, 

those lips, and the sounds 

that flow through them —

teeth, smile and those fucking lips.

Every word you speak 

excites my hunger for more.

I could see us

talking for hours

cuddled on the floor,

on a rug,

before a fire… 

and after…

…after… heh. 

You know I’m down with after, too.

Same as you, so let me ride you…

ride this wave of you with me 

with all the feelings of the sea 

as it calls to the sirens blaring, 

tides turning to howls 

of freedom 

and permanence.