Do you slide your hand along her thigh?
Do you move your mouth towards hers?
Do you know it will be right this time,
The truth between two bodies?
Or do you invent it -
Plan it out like a bank raid
On the paper in your head
Meticulous detail as your brain ticks over
Coke and adrenalin at midnight
Pushing jealous words on an unhelpful page?
Is your play a masterpiece, its characters
Flesh and blood?
The only blood is pouring down your thighs,
And out the tip of the pen,
But it's old blood, soiled blood,
Shed-too-long-ago blood.
Do you make it up as you go along -
Pen to paper,
Mouth to mouth,
Page to page,
Dust to dust.
The page is blank.
The drink is drunk.
The bed is empty.
Too tired to sleep, too strung-out to let
Words make sense.
Too full of caffeine and bullshit.
Do you put your hands across your face?
Do you wipe the spit from your mouth?
Will it come right this time?
The truth of a blank page.
Reason for writing:
A play which will not write itself.
Birth sign: Not entered
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View more poems by Lela Kaunitz, Saggitarius.