Last night your fingers threaded
Through mine like plastic vines
In a gallery, grapes dripping like lime
Drops off of peels. "You'd better not
Leave me," you murmured, buses
Shuddering down your throat,
Passengers coughing with plastic
Coated family members. My hands
Pulled up my waistband, damp
And smudged with your lipstick,
Pursed mouth pressed to fabric.
"I won't," I answered, and you tasted
Like frosted cold before snow,
Grey scapes and city spread over tongue,
Salt and strawberry pink dotted thighs.

flip of the fingers house of your hands
steepled fingers like wooden roofbeams
diamond studded knuckles, rugby thumbs
palms over the dome and push doors

blueberry jars clink with raspberry under
the faded overhang of the balcony, leaves
me for sale and fortunate, slated skin,
mouthed promises against pixel skimmimg

the flowery, transparent lace scoping up from
behind me and ending at my waist. when he
pushes his hand and cups the skin, i feel
emptier than i was after the dinner i had,
mounds of rice and bean scoops as your
forehead pressed against the mesa and
you said you loved her. at midnight,
the blue bathroom tile bruises my forehead
and i kiss it, lips against mold and mildew.
the next morning, you say i am not *****
and i mumble yes, pinching milk-soaked
cornflakes from my cereal bowl between
my fingertips and placing them on my tongue.

starting fires in alleyways and watching flames lick across brick
rubbing damp clay dolls across palms to chase warmth in winter
picking fake leaves off of plastic plants and flicking fern on floor
crouching next to walnut pots and standing to the doorway sides
grazing static on the television as pearl teeth knock across the pane
kissing knuckles and letting silver spikes snake between your teeth

breaking might be like running my fingers through the fields of your hair
sowing flowers in the empty crevices that separate the folds of my skin
walking by your crated white-picked house in the brisk afternoon
laying a hollowed hand over the denim jacket before my upticked heart
pressing lips to letters hoping that they'll be ripped open tomorrow
plunging eyes inside the envelope waiting to read what i write

the lines of the grates in the radiator
imprint onto the backs of my legs
people shuffle through the lobby,
swishing peacoats and snowflakes
dripping from their hoodies. i curl
my fingers around the phone
and press you closer to my ear.  

i've always wanted you closer.
you're tangled in earbuds
on the bus, arm wrapped
through the straps of your bag.
you wear someone else's grey
varsity sweater, red letters marked
across the chest. you lock
your windows before you go
to sleep, white paint chipping
and painting your nails.
your goodnights are eclipses of
the daring day stepping out
without clothes and reminding me
it's time to stop with you.

"i think i'm going to get help"
you rasp, and i am silent as a family
toddles through, children clinging
onto the swollen mittens at their
mothers' sides. i swallow and
lean against the wall, sit against
the radiator, cross my ankles
over the blowing heat.

here we are shaking
here we are

a slit to make your jawline,
i dig my fingers through
and find the blood dripping
down my hand to turn
my skin pink. the evening
i left you, the classroom
was cold and you said

at home my reflection is rainbow
spiked and glass sharded in the
bus windows. at home my hands
shake when i pass our streets.
at home i think of the way you'd
look dead and wish it'd happen
soon. your ink skin against paper
thin sheets is what i need.

here i am shaking
here i am