Read our conversation with Adolfo Aranjuez here



Touch is the language
of your love; tactile
transmissions by fingertip
skip, like beats, on my skin.
Words don’t have their way

with you. I feel lost sometimes

when eyes lock; moments
pass in silence and time
is all that exists. On my bed

we are ships adrift
sending messages in Morse
tapped, polyrhythmic
epidermis full of meaning.

Lips meet but you don’t
speak, your feelings caught
in a grill in your chest.
A word bursts forth
but it’s not that

I want. Woven fingers, tangled
limbs, tousled hair, shoulder
blade strummed like strings.

I have to go in a minute but

we haven’t said everything
yet. I know we’ll do this again
in two days, two weeks—too
long for me to think about right

now. This is all I have: to hope
is to take a risk. Sinking ship
or windswept sails, I know
I’ll get there and you’re waiting.


first published in Plaything Mini.