it's not likely
that i'd ever get tired of tracing
the topography
of your skin,

or housing myself within the confines
the breath of your memory
provides. it plays like
an old jazz record, filling
the crevices of this room,
the cavity within my rib cage,
thrumming in its slumber.

i remember
how your forehead would rest on mine,
beads of salt and longing
finding solace on my skin,
my own eyes two chambers
for your mammoth-like sorrows.
and so the needle drops,
this melody plays, and i know it
so well,
your crooning voice crackles,
spilling narratives of afflictions
ages old.

this is the first thing among a million other love-things
i will pull from my skin
resounding yellowed memories of
you,
soul from the streets
demon in the sheets
still got me writing and smoking and fussing—

i want you spread-eagled across my floor
telling me quiet things, scary things
anything that gets your blood going
**** you sure know
how to do mine
mean baby with
a gold ring on your pinky

i want you
in control of me
sit in my throat and take the wheel,
most days your storm is an infant
teething on the ridges of my dollar store sanity,
sometimes you're just so nice i think maybe
you'd take another chance on me

but i know
i'm just sprung
you don't feel me there anymore
not there

life is tame
and i revel in
the mysteries and treasures
of being a sad girl
riddled with the same pain and psychological tendencies
you are a crack in the wind
a tumor in the back of my skull
cherry red on the other end of this cigarette
feeding me pseudo-sorrows and cancer so sweet