Poetry

I Want the Hours

NYC, 2025 (photo property of the author)

I want more hours.
I want them buttery and greasy,
slopped with icing and
the fattest of fats.

Let me lick
the hours
from my fingers,
savoring each one
devilishly.

I want the hours long and winding
like a restless road
at dusk,
always arriving.

I want them selfishly,
like hints of a lover’s presence–
a fallen eyelash on white sheets,
a strand of hair on the back
of each hour
like a question mark.

I want the hours
like a madwoman,
turning over rocks,
howling into conch shells,
searching for them
in the dark spots of the moon.

I’ll trade sleep
for the hours,
get on my knees
for the hours.

Give them to me on a platter.
Serve me those delicious hours
in a crystal cup, spilling over.
Feed them to me slowly
like silky grapes–

I am starving.

NYC, 2025 (photo property of the author)