I don’t believe in the dappled restraints you say
are the language of sorry paving as a finger
picks at a forehead
a pinnacle a spot of loose blood deepens
into this faint echo of a small boat wrecked on the
south coast of any north faced country
Concrete and wine flows and her Irish accent sits with me
and sings and we walk at night to the sound of men
candescent on red thumping boards and looking for cock
ring in a green moon in the middle of her back
She turns without saying without speaking a word
in any language on any war torn beach across
the water is red is blue is colder than a window
misted with the steam of our coffee and
a bus swerves into a neon barricade of beige
She’s a fire starter.
its candescent allures her retinas
and fervidness seduces her skin,
her fingertips slowly forgets
the stirs to manipulate her puppet.
And that is how
she always ends up
combusting herself instead.
on frosted glass pane,
the steady cascade
of steaming water,
incorrect vision a-blur —
Twas as if a hand swept
over a canvas fresh with paint
and all was blend into one:
pain, bliss, fortune, dismay,
blue, red, smite, caress,
hope, despair, distaste,
and I, held breath,
wet with wonder,
whence a rainbow ribboned
taut round my blue blood-pump.
Summary: With nothing left to do but wait for the birthday boy to come home and celebrate, Aoba is struggling to keep himself occupied. When Ren helpfully suggests he follow his lead and take a nap, Aoba finds himself climbing into bed.
Overwhelmed by the scent of the man he’s missing, Aoba’s mind - and hands - begin to wander.
Little does he know his lover is a lot closer to home.
Notes: This is my contribution to kouao-week (day 3) and is the hippo’s birthday gift.