Unspoken Rhythms

By: Bekah Turney

“Ground control to Major Tom..”/ Record spins as you stand near the player./ Tall, stoic, vibrant hands that easily touch things/ And make them work at your command./ Grounding myself in a warping haze of beauty,/ Feeling the couch beneath,/ Thumbing intently through vinyls/ To avoid entrapping myself in/ Your colorful hues.

“Are you sure you can see the tv on that end of the couch?” You ask./ Nice line./ We talked of the yearn,/ How our lips would feel pressed against each other’s./ But that was over text,/ And I couldn’t see your eyes and pretty grin,/ Hair tickling the top of your lip and filling your chin,/ Mouth peeking through/ That swoons me now./ My heart races as I meet your changing irises,/ resistance of embrace,/ Failing./ You call them mood rings./ Your eyes, pupils dilating with every passing second,/ Lighter against the growing black as I draw more near.

I turn my head away, after the soft pillows of your lips collide against mine./ I hate that./ And they feel so damn good,/ So right./ Always turning away, afraid to let in something tangible, genuine./ Something unknown./ But it wasn’t long,/ You cradle your arms around,/ Tree branches pulling me into your nest,/ Fusing our tall bodies together,/ Until we disappear./ I turn to face you as John Cusack fades away from thought,/ Attention pulling away like a magnet./ On our sides we lay/ And stretch my leg to climb above you,/ Wrapped in flames.

My legs, limber, walk readily,/ Confusing the nerve stricken rush of blood,/ Rapidly beating in my chest/ Ready to burst with pumping force inside its cage./ A kaleidoscope of monarchs flap their colorful wings inside my gut/ As you stand in comfortable ease./ Whisk me away as you have the moment I first saw you./ Beautiful creatures you tell me of with fascination,/ Adoration for incredible things,/ In your eyes I see,/ Through all their changing hues,/ The same peculiar being.

Fingertip on your bowler, that sits hugging your head,/ A stoic angel silhouetted in the night./ Whisk me away and show me everything I’ve yet to see-/ Thumbing through vinyls of your soul,/ You place the needle down and I listen./ A soft hum,/ And unspoken rhythms.

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