in the sleepless ache of the body
i hear the slow turning of a wheel
not outside but somewhere in the chest
grinding dust from its own cogs
it pulls the night through itself
like a thread catching on a burr
the colors move first
sharp red eclipsing the golds
each flare a mouth i cannot close
and it whispers
that there is nothing to win
by surrendering less
the air thickens with wanting
and my hands
learn the shape of holding nothing
still i keep them open
as if something warm might spill in
desire hunts me in my own skin
trained to recognize the footfall
the subtle heat of a pulse through fabric
and even when i chain the hound
it paces
snarling at the scent in the wind
demanding its pound of flesh
for the mercy of not running
i know the voice
it wears perfume and skin
it leans close enough to light my breath on fire
the air thickens with wanting
its weight settling into my hands
heavier this time
until they are no longer open
but curled
as if they have already taken
and i drink without swallowing
filling myself until the skin strains
until the wheel turns faster
until the hound
stops pacing
and begins to pull
each inhale tastes of her
as if the night has been poured
from the hollow of her throat
the scent of her hair
floods the hollow behind my teeth
and her laughter
slides along the bone of my jaw
like a hand in the dark
a shadow pressed against me
all warmth and no mercy
fingers ghosting the edge of a door
that should remain closed
but is already ajar
the air thickens again with wanting
until my thoughts no longer speak in words
but in the shape of her hips
the ghost of her breath against my throat
the hound no longer straining at the chain
but sitting still
waiting for the door to open
because it knows it will
and i know it will
and the wheel
keeps turning