writer hermit vampire (artifice is a testament)

writer hermit vampire (artifice is a testament)

“She is enough.”—Harry Mitchell to David Norris, Adjustment Bureau (2011)

You're all humming live wires under your killing clothes.
Get over here, I wanna kiss your skinny throat—

“Wasp Nest,” The National, Cherry Tree

i am a writer

i am a hermit

i am a vampire

oh, yes, sure,

i may fall in love with the scent of you

no, i will fall in love with you

and you’ll feel the weight

of an ocean’s tide and Siren’s song

and when we are lying together

and i am rubbing my face and lips

across the curve of your thigh

inhaling and tasting the skin of you

as you arch your back and reach for me

i will be only partly there—thinking

what is this like?

drifting as i always do

as i always will

into me and the possibility of words

you will believe your legs wrapped around me

like a wedding band have pulled me home

you will offer your skinny throat only for me

to bury my fangs—to drink deep and true

and there will be times i press my mouth to your neck

after whispering in your ear as we lie entwined and hushed

“tell me you want me” to feel your words vibrate on my lips

i am one to taste and swallow your desire whole

but this writer’s love is permanently ephemeral

the love of a hermit anxious to be alone

the love of a vampire bound to the night

a wordsmith builds his fortress with words

and wields metaphors like a crucifix and Apotropaic garlic

and then i see you

caught outside

on a brisk, windy spring day

wearing inadequate sandals

and my mind spins

a quilt of words

to warm you in my hands

my face pressed to cool skin

artifice is a testament, you see,

and i believe in always you