The Telephone's the Tongue
|The telephone's the tongue|
With which we caress each other's skin.
Ah! My lips are open
To your smooth, dark voice!
Pleasure inundates domestic pain,
The anguish of endings,
A thousand bleeding dreams.
What love is not destructive?
So ours, too, must rip lives apart.
Let the tide of anticipation,
Those blood-swollen currents of delight,
Lift us over the bar.
Copyright by Nicholas Gordon
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