I think
about him
too much. I know
he doesn't think
about me.

And how simple
it was
for me
to fall. And how easy
it was
for him
to get up and get on.

I think,
when I see him,
I think more than I've ever thought
about him, or them,
or anyone.

I think
two people
alone
is better than one-- that two
scars can bleed as much as one-- that
words run hot from the sink to drown out the sun--I think.

How easy it is to say one
thousand words and, still, never quite
enough.

Waiting for the next song
to come on or a pin
to drop, whatever it is that comes
naturally.

I can't seem to remember the words
to his face or the melody
of his hands.
But the beat
of his power is
there. That tune I recognize.
That I know and memorize and regurgitate
in rhythm--100 bpm
or something stronger.

My heart pounding
so fast I can't feel
it in my chest,
but rather my lungs, my stomach, my gut
instinct gone numb-- a spreading warmth,
not hot, but intrusive and bursting
--no it couldn't be--
with thirst. A cocktail of passion
and power. Ravenous and subsuming.

I fell in
submission--weary and weak.
The world had exhausted me and he
had reaped the rewards. A phoenix,
he rose
from my ashes.

Leaving me
to smolder, to piece
together my
body.
Mind.
Heart.
Or let them scatter across
ashtrays and Hennessy.

Today is tomorrow’s Tuesday
night and I’m drenched in what could have been
your breath or my carbon monoxide. A cocktail of the two,
of us- the gemini
we are. We were.

Your weight felt heavy and my body concave.
Rasping through the speakers of your state of the art
speaker system-my playlist. I made it
for moments like these. Named it blazing lips
and raptured fingers or maybe just:
'Revival'.  

I'll let you trace
my outline, if I can be
your vertex, pulling deeper and harder,
pushing pencil to paper—ink on velvet
and the emptiness of words.

I gave up to you. I give up
through you. What words could mean
more than you’re okay. We’re just
fine:

You could ignite me, or let me simmer
in the twisting of the sheets
or your dreadlocks. Built in
subtlety and
abandonment. The chronicles
of sobriety detailed in the hollow
of your tongue-- the stale space
between two thoughts--a presence
and my innocence: fruit
ripe for the tasting. You could sip
at my pretense and I’d swallow your malice
or we could delve into my irreplaceability. Wait
a week. We’re just fine.

I feel him hurting
me. Already.

With cinched waists and jarred backs--
a trickle down my eye, carving out
my lips. My tongue. My spine. Your hands--
the rough carpenter of longing.
I crave to find your center--
the point of equilibrium where
two words meet and
love, and writhe and conquer.

All of me is
vulnerable and molten
and yours.

Yours is something different,
different from mine,
from his. His is more.
His is power. Is Glory.
Is light and strength
and Yours.

And what's more?
Is mine. Is our
breath. Our metronome
and the syncopated
rocking of your arms and the bed frame.
Just left
of center. Just right
on target.

Sometimes we peeled back the sky
and pretended that its whispers never caught us.
With wind whipped faces, and chalky cheeks you rested there,
on the side of the road.
Just moments after
daybreak. A face like molten plastic reflected
off the cadence of the skies.

I see you now, wrapped in metal sheaths
traversing the highways of your smile
to the soft whine of a saxophone.

I'll let you lay and wait
a while, in this circle of morning doves,
tuning in to your pressure points.
Switching radio stations.
And tomorrow, maybe,
we'll find where we are.

Her fingers were coated in rain
drops and candied whispers,
lacing the side
of her face, like a gas
mask or a prayer
shawl.

Woven into her cheeks were the clasped hands
she knew all
but too well, dripping honey and sea
salt across her brow- swollen and
heavy. She felt
its pressure, always,
like a sieve or a boiling point. The cool
90 degrees of a summer smoke.
Orbiting her fingertips.

She flicked the ashes
into a puddle and spat. Her gum
had lost it's flavor.
It was always a bit too sweet.