i loved what you did
and you what I, but
now i can't separate
the two.

my heart
toils at
night.

I remember we once
watched a lifetime movie
and someone slept with
someone, but it wasn't
the right person, (it was
dark) (and unrealistic)
I asked you how you
would be able to tell
it was me in a dark room
and you thought for a
moment and then said

well I'd look for the scar on your
back

and I was confused because there
was no scar on my back. But you
pulled my hand and placed it there
and there it was. No wider than a
dime.

And you smiled again and said
that's how you'd know it was me.

I like the way my
wine dress billows
and the clouds that
look like watercolor
paint. I like the way
my toes spread out,
these are just a few
things I wish I could
tell you about.

i woke up and tried to
forget but was reminded,
instead, of the way your
lips gather like dawn
and dusk on either side
of the relentless night of
your insides, all points laid
out, shining light in form
constants: you, unknowingly
lit up, like cigarette tips under
city lights. so, is this how
you do it? how you smuggle
small likenesses, the
reflections upon slight layers
of water across the surface of
your eyes, into my waking
thoughts in ever-decreasing
intervals? finally, ending in
slow sequential convergences
with me seeing                    
                              you in
         oceans of sleep,
seeing your eyes, the soft
skin of your palms, bent
visions emerging in my
ventricles, aortae, arteries
of
how this ends.

In October you
made me soup
after I said I
hated you.

I said, "I hate how I open-mouth
breathe when I sleep, pretty girls
sleep with mouths closed." and
you replied that the way I slept
melted you down to your core.

I said, "I hate how I open-mouth
breathe when I sleep, pretty girls
sleep with mouths closed." and
you replied that the way I slept
melted you down to your core.