Untitled II

Not long like standing three paused-steps outside of your door or long like the catch between breaths that could cascade speech-ways or sigh-ways or impishly my-ways or long like the decades (I swear) we've been lip-locked while civilizations bloomed and burned with rivelets and rust and not even the Romans ruled breadths and depths like those wrapped in our embrace because we sweat for that which we can't touch and touch anyways with hands like oil on skin that is more beautiful than any marble broken into idea(l?)s and write our own religion with strokes of trust and flourishes of why the hell not look like fools and make mistakes and enjoy creating and cleaning up our own messes with these hands cleansed holy by heart to hip to hunger-shudders of shared dominion of bodies we'll only have for a moment and not long like that moment no not long at all.