Skin

I like skin
in the morning,
when I awake
with a cup of coffee
cream milk swirl,
after a head-on crash
into a brick of writer's
block the night before.

I come alive
in this doll house,
shards of your skin
peeling away in warmth
melting my cold
bones to solace.
How many times
have I wrapped myself
in this comfort zone:
hands in your clock
light in your arms
soul in your stock
penis in your pelvis,
I come alive-
like a pen,
when the ink
starts to flow
in the swirvel of circles.

When the day is drawn
and I take one last
sip of your skin,
narrow nipples
between my lips,
then I'm fare
for the night,
to finish the poem
that went dry,
isolated from life.

©2008 Anthony Liccione