Concert For Aliens by Ben Riddle
The maze came alive beneath our hands as we took turns laying upon each other; finally having found time between flicking ink at parchment and pressing the sounds of ancient words against our lips; calling that poetry instead of my hands on your hips, your sound in my ear, my teeth whispering apology into the deep of your neck by the moonlight. God released us into the world, and now he hunts us for sport, or the privileged that claim his name do, but that does not mean we need survive, without living; your hands pull at my back like it is made of rosaries and, as we love each other beneath the stars this feels more like prayer than anywhere made of dead wood, quiet stone, the burnt smell of incense; we, rolling in the dirt, your toes curling in the fertile soil of the school's garden maze. We lay together after like we died, and slowly, slowly we breathe life into each other; slowly, slowly, I feel your heart become one with mine, and you point to the moon, ask if I think two aliens there are looking at us, or are we special? I point at the stars, point to a constellation that looks like your smile, another that looks like the freckles on your shoulder, I don't care if this has been done before; as long as you are with me, and we are together. Before dawn, we sneak back to our rooms, you are still on my breath, there is still dirt between your toes.
The most interesting thing about Benjamin Riddle is that he is building a little library of all the contemporary poetry he can get his hands on. The voices of poets go still too soon.