even when your tongue even when the grease in your even when your mouth is even when your pioneer hands you are not the tired voice i you are not the wound on my you are not a shield from the you are an old wooden ship all your own
is the only muscle in you i love
hair sticks to me for a week
ripe on mine
take the shape of my hips
want to hear in the morning
thigh i tell stories about
rain and you stay dry
— Amanda Birkner, “Maritime” (via commovente)
(via lifeinpoetry)
