He wants to build
a city with his voice;
tabernacles and churches,
brick by holy brick
in the way his mouth moves
around open-ended vowels,
across sentences never finished
and whispers, dusted across
his lips like snow
on a dirt track.

He wants to build
a city with his voice;
rusty fire-escapes and skyscrapers
when he laughs low
against the freckle on your thigh
and pushes you further back
against the brick wall
that scratches the bare skin
of your shoulder.

He wants to build
a city with his voice;
graffiti smeared by the rail-road
when he tells you that he loves you –
neon and bold –
and you know that one day
the bridges he constructed
with tongue and teeth
against the underside of your wrist,
will become echoes,
ash sinking in the rivers
of promises made under _____.

When he smiles,
your heart tremors
in a terrible way.
Of course.