***.
i wish we could have made that word into friction,
and droplets of ocean streaming off our bodies.

i've always thought that maybe something could grow
like a plant
between us,
plant its roots through our faces.
i always imagined that one harsh summer, sweaty
blanket night, after open mic,
we'd run the streets barefoot,
and you'd sing tom waits in your
rusty voice, like a garden pail
left out for a couple springs.

and you'd take me somewhere frightening and strange,
where i've never been, even though
my feet roam this tiny town even when my eyes are
sleeping.
then i'd tell you
that
heaven is a foreign concept to me,
and you'd whisper
that there is nothing realer than this earth,
and you would say it with passion, with a bite and a kick in it,
like good hot sauce;
your lips moving harsh and fast against
my stretched neck,
its skin begging for the weight of your kisses.

and then we'd recite poetry with our bodies
under a summer moon,
like an empty plate,
with august skin peeling off our bones,
leaving us raw and intertwined,
a knot of ferocious dreams, and thin
crunchy book pages.

words whispered loudly into the sweet
sweat of the dark,
your hands playing me like a violin
my body singing with your touch.

four cigarettes after;
two for our mouths,
and the others for our hungry hearts.