How sound that I should sleep alone,
shadow of you still beneath my clothes.
It’s harder to sleep here,
I’ll admit,
perhaps my independence is as frail as you say.
Yes, darling,
let me kiss you drunk
and fill my teeth with your tongue
-but let it not spread out,
contain it
(our warmth together as eurythmic movement of our limbs set to the tempo of your exhalation).
I will walk, No-longer-lover,
for your bed is no-longer mine.
Take those green, floral sheets
and spread them across the back
of your present muse.
Kiss the dark strands of
her hair.
What does she taste like?
Home and destruction?
Pleasure.
Probably.
Until it sours
and the obsession of love once again
festers
and the pus mutates back into your favorite
alcohol.
(But, Dearest,
You’re still my favorite)