Fling

Sydney Hastings

What it means to live intensely is to write it on the fly.

This is how I met you.

The drone of snare drum hearts

generating heat hot enough to sponsor Mars.

Your lungs exhale fear

as I search for you through the smog.

I know I have succeeded when

my tongue engulfs the flavor.

The way raspberry tastes is the feeling

of my architecture collapsing into your eyes.

Frank Gehry, please reinvent my body

as beautiful as you captured New York.

Is it possible meeting you wasn’t a coincidence?

The stars are products of the Moon’s tears,

but they don’t touch our warm bodies

due to the lack of gravity.

If they were to fall over us,

our existence would crumble, heard.

When the sun sleeps,

our figures grow fonder of each other.

I’ll be the girl who’ll color your empty sheet,

the hollow baskets of souls.

Our starving fingers are as lucky as thirteen.

Your lips melt on sight.

They drip into your palms,

then seep onto the floor

from the cracks between your fingers.

Little Syd caresses your waist with her fingertips.

Tomorrow and the days that come afterward

will feel more and more intimate by the touch

as we stand in his puddle of lips

that continue to bleed right into my soul.

My fickle breaths make his lips

reappear on his face again.

Pourquoi as-tu si peur de l’amour?

Why are you so afraid of love?

Your eyes tell me every day

how much they’re falling for me.

The way your body speaks to me

is my new favorite language,

but what will it tell me tomorrow?