A Porch Lit By No Sun

Brandied thumbs supplicate Harsh upon alembic hips,
Leaving neither bruise nor cumber,
In wake of transparent intentions.

Hands shake upon the neck, Hesitant, suspiring sighs;
As if opening any further Would imprint proof too
Substantial, too Sustained, to face in the grey morning.

And yet within seconds Quick tempered twisting begets
lips breaking distance. As one struggles to decant,
the other is voracious in quenching thirst.
No longer lingering the spirit of future validity.

Oak barrel lips Brand lines of consummate repletion, lacking
the tangled burns of hot iron pressed too long.

Two bodies left to evaporate
Within the hush of the devil's ringing chalice.
A second hand, gasping effort that steals the mind,
the effect that both dulls and engorges the senses.
Until the only mode of feeling
is one of being lost between starting point and destination,
Beating against clears walls unbound.

Afterwards, Slip into the gaze of a hazy morning mist,
And transpire onto the porch lit by no sun and a condensated glass.
The bottom of the bottle is hit, Confiding this addiction,
Within closed lips And the cynosure of rest.

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