Intimacy
is a heavily bound
tongue inside
a shivering mouth.





The steady rhythm
of yesterday's, today's and always
folded haphazardly
through limbs
intertwined
upon sea of smoke
and laughter shared.




When the sun
is pregnant with longing,
and the moon is an open door
for token wishes.




Why do we wear rings,
on sinful fingers?



Why does this suitcase heart
ever lulls itself without
causing corruption?




Intimacy is a handstitched
love letter marred on the skin
but only to
a language no one can read.




Like when the color Orange
is both the color and the fruit.


But not when it's not ripe,
or when you're blind.



Intimacy is
both two things
all at once

but then again,
can also become
none in between.




Like all ocean tide
that ebbs away,
only to be kissed
by moonlight



but never
stays.