Friends like fickle timepieces,
I'm studying these circling arms.
Today we're rubbing off the gold,
we're turning pockets inside-out
as I'm peeling off your clothes.

The dandelion seeds are dancing,
tube between your teeth
lifting up the bell jar
to release the waning fumes of me.

We're disappearing
into shapeless smears on my white ceiling
I'm waking up
  to shapeless smears on my white ceiling

The dewy density of days
between our poems spoken wet and blooming
is just a thin and runny equinox
where sweet abstraction
becomes messes uncontained.
My fingertips and lungs are stained
with your stale and flavorless tepid rain;
hands still moving though I've stopped winding.

  I don't know where, I don't know why
    nostalgia shriveled up and died
now I'm just remembering.

serendipity,
my forever affliction:
tripping on the blanks.

sweet temporary
wake up tasting your thrush;
still feel like smiling

i guess i'm alone
but suddenly i feel filled
with *"it will be fine."

straddling the thrum
of our
bed-bound amalgamation
i come,
fall asleep on the couch.

You pause to tell me
"Fools rush in,"
then tilt a beer into your labret;
  a tiny clink and
 your long practiced swallows:
I tremble with the aliveness of the room
and the miles you've traveled
just to turn up my volume.

'This is the room one afternoon I knew I could love you/and from above you how I sank into your soul,' Jeff Mangum croons through the crackling speakers*

...similarly simple,
like the coyness of corner smiles,
I  am exposed
finally
  to your bedroom,
and the snug universe you've built within.

Cross-legged on your bed
I hear your nervous, careful stories.
Spoken into fidgeting fingers, silken wrinkled
bedsheets debauched and  re-washed--
your words fall into them so easily
like you've found  benevolence in their silence--
their softness as language.

Imbibing every ounce of you,
I wish to endure
like the canvases that span your wall.
But I dissolve back into winter
as you regain your right mind.
The ascending stairs creak
hungover and meek
like me

There isn't much sky
in this pallid, stale cocoon
no greens nor greys, no electric branches
searing fragile, barren walls.
But the heady, sagging scent of moisture
suggests a storm--
                                                         ­                                  yes, there was once me:
a turbid bloom, an opportunist
exhausting avidity in one overarching spill.
As I rolled through your gutters,
flippant and bleeding into everything,
you rose with the dryness of the day
and spoke of your immurement,
the feebleness of my mold and mildew.

We are lovers in color,
salted scents that stick to covers.
Splayed out on your coral-reef couch
hackneyed and bleeding,
bleary but needing,
I've settled quietly into your imprints of indifference.

Stale ***** tongue                                                           ­     I'm late for work.
      speaks insipidity:                                                      ­       Shower if you want to.
                                                            ­                                 Lock the door as you leave.
                                                         ­                                      It was nice seeing you.

I lay there greying all morning.
Soaking into everything, your carpet seas
brine my feeble, shadow-casting lesions.
                               
        Unsure if you've left me ***** or clean                 (this time)
I drag my body down your tainted hallway.
In stark fluorescence, there is no clarity
but the echoes, like reflections
of the emptiness of eve.

Blood-letter run dry
          somehow still high,
                                                ****** into the thoughtlessness
                                                 ­                                                      of
                                                              ­                                                       your
                                                                ­                                                                 ­     tides
                                                                ­                                                             (I am disregarded, but alive.)