the first time i saw you in 38 days, or something like that,
you etch-a-sketched my skin so that i could have a
souvenir of how much we wanted a second
of sleep.
I'll bet you are exhausted from reading
my poetry
that continues to turn into you and
i have no excuses or tickets or money,
but you taste like honey and you can imprint art,

t e m p o r a r y or n o t,
           on my limbs.

so when you gathered your arms around my torso
and said
that my heart was beating too fast at such a late hour,
i wanted to tell you that
maybe it's always been that way or
maybe it's a defect or
maybe i was
just too scared
to open
again.