I stopped pulling you towards me two pieces ago,
when you sliced my vision and ****** out the nectar,
tied the rope around my neck and dropped your anchor.
I tangled the nightmare of you in the wire of my mattress,
and punished your memory with a solid glass of wine
in my closet at two in the afternoon after I had to see you
push in the lock with her laughter on the other side of the door.
I’ve ignored you from the crowd, designed your ****** in my salad bowl,
had to kiss you through chocolate box comforts and a movie.
So, forgive me, if I don’t wrap myself around your infatuation (again)
all because you’ve taken an insomnia interest in me— excuse me,
my body. I don’t want to sound whiny in the form of a line,
but working you through my words and glazing
the misshapen mold I have of you with a poem or two
is the only solace I’ve found in these months of looking down when you pass
and cursing myself in the shower when I think my roommates are asleep.
This felt like falling in love until you had to blacken me
with your own corrupt expectations, until you took me
like a vile little shot and burned me all the way down.

But here I am, freshly rinsed and freshly pried open
from the loneliness, ready to accept your sins like a rotten Eucharist.
No matter the distance or the self-promising or the wasted
advice written on this paper every single night—

I’ll let you skip to the ending. I promise to wear my boots
back to my room and carry my jacket like the heart
you always give back when you’re finished.

We sit on a river bank
our bikes resting
against a tree;
Milka throwing
small pieces of branches
into the river's flow.

Some one said
you can't walk
in the same river twice,
she says,
don't know
who said it,
but some one said it.

Heraclitus,
some Greek guy said it,
I say.

She looks at me,
her eyes cow-like,
deep and sad.
What's he mean?

It's not the same water,
it moves on like our lives;
we can't stand still
no matter how much
we wish we could.

Where'd you read that?

I study her sitting there;
her hair brushed back,
tied by a ribbon;
her grey coat,
the brown and pink dress
coming to the knees,
black stockings.

Reader's Digest,
I guess.

I hate cold water;
had to wash in it
this morning
because the fire'd
gone out,
she says,
looking at
the river again.

I know,
I heard you moaning
at your mother.

She shrugs her shoulders,
continues throwing
branches in the river.

She moans at me
often enough.

But she's the parent,
that's what they do.

What would you do
if I stripped off now
and walked through
the river?
She says, smiling.

What would your mother say
if you did?

She'd not know.

If she did?

God knows;
slap me one, I guess,
but what would you do?
She asks me.

Nothing;
just watch the scene.

You wouldn't join me?

And get wet feet?
no, not me.

Spoilsport;
too cold anyway.

I open my cigarette packet
and take two out;
one for her
and one for me.

We light up
and sit musing,
the river flowing on,
slow,
moving over
small rocks and stones,
down a slight hill,
we sitting
watching its flow.

Give me something beautiful,
something beautiful to write.
Something about how the good guys always win,
something about the books we read as children, coming to life.
I need someone to tell me how the prince will come,
and the weather will change it's season this time.
I need a little hope,
I need something to help me feeling inside.

I want to map out
The constellations in your skin
Join up the stars
With my fingernails

Paint a picture on your back
With scratches and bruises
Not violence, dear, but
Practised intimacy.

I want to have you, hold you
Bring you closer to me
Reel you in and
Hook you up

I want to explore you
Commit every part to memory
Run my fingers over every patch of
Uncharted territory

Darling, dearest, beloved
None of which are quite
What I want -
But perhaps inveni fits your criteria.

I am a good man, inveni
But I can only hope that
my Lord will forgive me because
I will commit glorious sin and save alike

If it means I may sin with you.