Great bursts of chemical oozings
slide through ventricles
and disperse,
unhinge my sternum
and part my lungs
so my heart can push
at the thin skin of my chest.
My cranium becomes elastic, inflates,
its crown swelling -
a transparent formation of overhead eyestalks -
giving me dizzying heightened sight.
My brain swims in its extra space.
My eyeballs bob back
and bounce off my
frozen-taut tongue.
I hear each deafening slide of cloth,
each rock-grinding foot shuffle
and each cyclonic breath-breeze.
I can hear your hair growing.
I can smell your hair growing.
The veins of my limbs
sprout bristles like crystals,
that sting then leave a numb ache.
Arms weakly waver and sway,
palms glowing warm
emitting waves of wet essence,
while cool fingers wake into
novel functions as antennae,
extending to sense airborne clues,
seeking any molecule of you.
My feet have grown suction cups.
I'm vacuumed to the spot.
It is all so lovely.
And how I long for more.
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| Jellyfish, photo by CarbonNYC from Wikimedia Commons |
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