My Clawed Friend

I talk about you like a cancer for the tongue. I reminisce of our nights where my fingers felt your grooves and bumps, as if tracing the lines on your own palm. Cold porcelain and clawed feet marching on the shiny tile. "Echo!" you cry and your spout groans out the stars. Your rivets familiarly press deep into my thick feet, a plugged paramour in which I lay, in which I stand. So my love, pour me down into your copper drains. Gobble me up. All I ask in return is sanctuary. A place in which to cut the ribbons from my curls. A place in which to allow myself to show fear. A place to allow me the cold of you to chill my reddened face. I want the adolescence of you my clawed friend and to not see November's orange eyes. But to see the silver and white gleam of your paws. Kiss me good night from your gleaming faucet Because you are all that I want. Tonight I want to count your rivets, and turn the knob marked H and sink into the curve of your spine.