despite the consuming appeal of your heartfresh offerings

sometimes
I don't want to be
supple

slippery and succumbing to your arms, your eyes
though blue always showing in the quarry of my excavations
like great glowing lantern orange orbs,
miner's tunnels running down into shadowed cores
keen and intent on dripping down your throat
the soulstrung fingerwrung moisture in my lungs
and all the times you make me a voiceless songbird

sometimes
I want my skin to be less
pliable

less reliable on the remembered sensation of sun
radiating through your hands even below ground
revealing my surface as yielding and malleable.
not because I love you less-
because the mined habits in skin and soul
fear so greatly the length of climb it will take
for us to surface from the entrenched elevations
to which we've entangled each other.