in me there is a serpent longing
to crawl from my throat into the warmth
of your frame, and eat, and eat.
turn off the lights, please,
i say, and place one hand
on your own: too soft.

last night, all my joints
turned to ice—today, your spit
burns. i cough into the alcove
of your collarbone; sorry, you say,
as though you are not sure
why you say it at all.

on the couch you struggle
to fit all our parts together
and as you kick your legs
between mine, i begin
to work out exactly
how wrong this is.

a memory: holding you;
i am all heat and tremors,
meat and muscle,
interrupted breath.
but who can trust their mind
as well as they can their body?

i am hungry and tired and
falling to bits, an ugly affair,
the ugliest of all, and i cannot tell
if i mean it or not when i say
that i do not love you
anymore.