My fall.

My fall, soon you will arrive. No sadness in colors vibrant, bright. Burnt and copper, I do not mourn.

The belly of red is amber’s energy, and the gray swallowing me, your heavy thoughts and moody stories. Lights flickering from houses, I feel not alone. Though no one knows from looking out windows, muted pleas and moaning cellos. And what you’re about to do while twisting me, holding me to,
Your stare.
Your belt,
Your ties,
Your palms,
Taboo,
All embracing me, thoughtfully.

Parallel to summer’s embers, I am wrapped in fevers born from my breath,
In, and,
Out,
I am sworn in, and I am not scared of the devil and his fright. Moon calm, and you, too calm. Both cascading in an accent spoken from a sequence of landscapes. My palette of apricot and rose. Your night, your silence, and your groans. Aligning me, perfectly. For you, my Prince, there is no other space, me and my heart’s intention to,

“Please…”

Fog weighted, you hovering over my left ear as you whisper, “I love you, ma,” and, “Let me show you all the ways you are mine.” Ankles, thighs, wrists, arms, all laced in shadows by night’s sun. My hands reach out to stop you, and to also beg you to continue on. You smiling, placing me where you tell me I belong.

Your version of wintry frivolities, cinnamon stick in peach tea,
Figs,
Dates.
Quarter past late,
And on time.

Your hands rough and loud, and me grabbing sheets, thinking they will save me. I cling to you, my fall, to breathe.

Between Jerusalem and Mexico, a taboo love.