I rub something fast then slow on my tongue and think of you.
I stare directly into a lightbulb painful but there you are—a wheel of light
spinning over everything.
I dream it’s your stellar lips your forest kiss.
Build a history castle with you.
Deepen my cupidity.
Me bite into a French butter pear, your thighs
Me dress in peppercorn silk, teleport to your hands.
You invent a watch for me.
You stop the clock on me.
Your body is a choir. I am its devoted listener.
Bad days I want to go missing. Fantasize only you discover me.
Game: you bury me. I resurface dirtier than ever.
Game: I bury you. You metamorphose return always more exquisite.
I rode you in December mornings and nights.
I see an owl—it’s how you fell through my nictitating triple lid.
I see a ghost—it’s how I’m in need of a good haunting.
Suzanne Richardson earned her M.F.A. in Albuquerque, New Mexico at the University of New Mexico. She currently lives in Binghamton, New York and is a Ph.D. student in creative writing at SUNY Binghamton. She is the writer of Three Things @nocontactmag, and more about Suzanne and her writing can be found online here: www-suzannerichardsonwrites.tumblr.com and on Twitter here: @oozannesay.