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
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
that made us both forget
our heavy hungry lives,
just for a blinking moment,
our moans reaching up
like drowning arms
to heaven. 

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