While the sun got higher,
we stayed low--
swaying and sweating in the trenches
like outlaws on the run.

We shoot to ****.

Today I am a loaded pistol
and your palm is pressed against my action,
waiting for your moment--
waiting for a green light--
waiting for me to crawl back into bed and pull the trigger--
and your hands are set ablaze,
waiting to light the fuse.

Here I am,
in hiding,
belly to the earth,
eyes shut.

It's not late enough for fireworks.
It's not early enough to be wasting your time.

If it were up to me,
you'd have a girl,
a lover,
a staunch and
silky silhouette
between your ***** sheets--

she's the perfect venue for your
****** thoughts and
ill intentions.

She'd be proud,
and savage,
and loud when she's drunk,

a little bit broken,
but not too much--
just enough to understand you.

She'd be your muse
and your music,

sleeping on the
hardwood floor,
in the little puddle of light
that seeps
through the curtains of
your subconscious--

but she's not afraid of the dark that you live in.

I'd like to remind you
that I think of you every day--
and the thought sticks to me,
then peels away,
like burnt skin--
as if
I love nothing more than the idea of
being surrounded by you,
no matter how much it hurts.

I'd like to remind you of the lessons you've learned--
rise from the ash, my love,
you are not who you thought you were--
so act like it.

I'll remind you that
the "pain" you feel
is just the sensation of blood
rushing back to the limbs and organs
you left empty for a while.

Please don't stay empty for long--
you're a sad little monster.
And the world,
we did nothing to deserve your cold shoulder.

She laid herself across the skyline
on a bed of old memories,
settled in the morning fog.

I'd like to live here.
I'd like to spend every afternoon,
wasted and wasting the daylight on
those stupid freckles and hotel bedsheets.

I'd like to live between your shoulder blades,
always graced with a twisted arm and
a heavy palm pressed against my back,
getting softer by the minute.

I'd like to live beneath your ribcage,
shouting hollow Om's at the vaulted ceilings
before I slip into your old t-shirt,
slip into your basement, and slip out of sight.

Dear friend, don't get up.

She keeps a heavy hand and an open promise:
sleep always on the horizon,
not ever at home.

When the summer heat swells in, we'll undress each other and lie naked on the hardwood floor of our kitchen.  That's a promise.  Fans will hum around us, a chorus of shhhh's and cicadas, and I'll draw lines with the pools of sweat on your skin-- from your temples to your toes and back up again.  We'll bake in the cool color of the air, needing no release, but panting on the floor like tired dogs.

I'll sing you a song.  You'll adore me.  We'll turn over.

If you were mine, I must not touch you.
In the desert of space and time
I would watch you turn.
And you would know
that every part of you was being memorized,
so that I could still fuel my world when you're not home.

Like solar energy.
Like sunflowers.

If you were mine, you must never be held.
I will always be longing for your warmth,
basking in your glow,
thriving from the excess you exhale.

You, my sun, are everything--
and when you go, we will surely follow.

Morning breaks above the surface,
followed by my breath.

You'll have to forgive me,
I'm still waking up.
Still getting used to the light
and the idea of loving you.