Spicy Stares and Ink

I pressed the slippery ink

thick and aggressive

down on the paper,

willing some cacophony

to escape my shaking hand

and form words

in between the crispy college rule.

You didn’t mean to stare,

I know,

but it seemed neither

one of us could hold

our eyes in our lightning bolt sockets

with flies buzzing

round the coffee filters,

the emergency exits clearly marked,

begging me to take them

seriously,

when really I just wanted

to hear syllables

slip off your spicy tongue,

either honest painful secrets

kept inside for fear

of their gritty teeth

eating you from the inside out,

or even talks of the way
rain sliding down your back
made you feel at home,

and those sweet delicate

kisses

that made us both forget

our heavy hungry lives,

just for a blinking moment,

our moans reaching up

like drowning arms

to heaven.