Your naked spine is a curve And cure to my hungry fingertip Which roams astray to your hip. Hair spills on the pillow, a black smudge of raven, ink, and curl. I stretch to cover you, turning the hum of your breathing into a melody. Above the sleepy silence there cuts an aching, haunting voice.
“He’ll be gone from you” whispers the voice, And I watch as through your fragile ribs the stems of an intoxicating flower curve, Reaching towards the light of the windowpane and singing a flutelike melody. I trace it with a shaking fingertip, Jealous as one petal gently brushes a curl And another velvet red drop falls to your hip.
The flower weeps cool, black-red juice dotted with yellow seeds in a river down your hip. I imagine you bathing in another’s song, another’s kisses, another voice. The purple bruised skin of figs erupt along the stem’s curl, Covering your body until you become a gently sloped curve Of fruit, rising and falling with each breath. A single fingertip Could topple the pile and send the fruit plinking against the floor like a discordant melody.
I remember how sweet and shimmering was our summer melody, The first time your lips touched my neck and your hands found the groove of my hip How I spent hours looking up and down your frame, even at a single pale fingertip. Our laughter melted into the flower blossoms outside the window; your touch was a voice Of new beginnings and ends. Still I watch those flowers and figs curve Through your heart and feel a fog of envy in my belly curl.
I twirl my finger through the soft ringlet of each curl And crave for you to wake up, to quench my thirst with your cool melody. In this one-sided adoration of early morning my thoughts bend and curve, Pulling me away from you while I try to stay attached to your hip. A single reminder, look, or balmy breeze evokes the hatefully reasonable voice Saying I can only hold onto you by the end of your tiniest fingertip.
As I walk my hands down your back step by step, fingertip by fingertip,
The memories of you sharpen and make my worried stomach knot and curl. “Stay with me,” says my voice “Be with me,” mourns my melody. I align myself with the jut of your hip, Sigh in the warmth of your skin, wrap around you like a crescent moon curve.
The sun rises on the rumbled bedsheets and your raspy voice, a stretch starts from each fingertip Down to the curve of your straightening body and sluggish hand raking through curl. Our words are too small for the melody of memories by your side, too small to describe how you kiss the pocket of my hip.
Artist Statement: This is a sestina where the narrator battles with the thought of potentially losing their lover as they wake up together in the morning.