Distraction

This excellent languor has me halted in your bed.

My fingers converse with your skin; there’s a dialogue of wanderlust in my head. The motivation to move has been extinguished by your hand, the conversation of embrace, the horizontal of your land.

I map with my lips, postponing wakefulness hip by hip, and deny the day's malaise kiss by kiss.

We are kinetic, electric going in. The labyrinth is always too short-lived. We are frenetic, busy, and I can sense the rift.

Wave after wave slowly undulating out, lips departing lips, an open mouth cracked, widening the distance, time is difficult to find, the potential of what we started becoming doubt, old, unfound.

I’ve a second breath, and thunder the storms again. Not brave enough to speak, but I spoke it where I laid, post, I am small and have nothing to say, and I hope that I’ve said it well enough, but not given it all away. Tiptoeing the verge, entirely filled with impulse and desire and hope, I am struggling for words.

I heard that there was a name for this, a borrowed word.

An overused cliché, a quotation, a noun, a verb.