by Sarah Frances Moran

In a preconceived fashion neither one of us in all our infinite pondering
could ever have imagined, thought of or hoped for… we crash

There’s something cliche in the static that transfers through our bodies when we touch… because doesn’t everyone say that…

“Your touch tingles”

Well cliche can see itself to the door… because our touch sparks
it sizzles
it reverberates
it causes earthquakes that no seismograph could register
its shift starts deep inside the recesses of souls that most of the world cowers from… has cowered from
it lifts itself through us and out of us with a music that only
our ears hear
it pounds
its the deepest bass line
you’ve never heard

I could whisper
I could stealth my way across the plain of you
and it would still resound with madness

If I inch my way across your skin
easing my tongue… into your mouth
I’d own you…
at the very moment
I thought I’d left possession behind

We come together with a violent intensity
that only we could possibly handle

Our worlds were meant to collide

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