3.20am Poem by Oliver Roberts

I remember your inner thighs,
your awakening warmth on my skin,
how it felt like toffee rain.
You dripped a kiss into my dreams
and I saw ripe berries swelling in the sun.
Your tongue stretched and scooped and looped,
slowly twisting me awake.

In the dark, you drew me out with your slovenly want,
your body heavy on top of mine, blessed with gravity.
You revolved on me and sloshed your bare hips;
I slipped where you slipped, we grappled at body parts.
I felt for your face and traced it in my blindness,
your bleeding lips, your cheeks, your still eyes.
You had a new visage; nocturnal, savage, hidden.

Your breath in my ear was like night plunging in and out of day.
You sucked and breathed without logic,
you shed a nakedness beyond your nakedness.
I held you down and brought you closer to your prey.
There were teeth and nails and a back arched in sinew,
strands of hair stuck flatly down among the conical cries.
Then, slumped and spread like a universe born,
you sent startled birds flying out of night towards the perches of our souls.