We could talk about the philosophy of sex like
We talk about leaves.
But I am watching your arm—
As you describe the dreams you’ve had,
And something about the reasons for those dreams—
I am watching your arm.
The navy elegance of blood vessels,
Written on supple, white skin.
Like a secret that I shouldn’t know,
Or a scene I definitely shouldn’t be watching
While you talk so seriously
About the regrets you feel
And the ways you try to make them small.
The philosophy of sex is distracting.
I try to define the bend of your soft, warm, white arm…
Studying the angle of your neck…
But each of the moments I language
Becomes just that.
A moment in language…
Cold marks on a colder screen.
A technology of distance.
And, really, what is a philosophy of sex but skin?
Sliding over concepts,
Cool explanations of warm spots,
A bloodless philosophy of silk and dark hair…
Like skin, the philosophy of sex
Is too close when it’s mine.
And too far away when it’s yours.
Because you are talking
(Something about dreams),
I am thinking of your moving mouth
And the tongue behind it.
The philosophy of sex is dangerous.
In this philosophy
The corners are hulking memories.
Waiting to remind me of the barely caught breaths,
The smirking resolutions,
The bendability of truth.
It is always just beyond a clarification…
Always lurking just underneath a liquid layer