Tell me you don’t love me.
                     and the fingers I run through your hair are nimble caterpillars
that are strong enough to fly away now.

Kiss me so I know it’s not real;
    that each lascivious touch is a misconception of realms where I may actually have stability…
   and that you’ll make me breakfast in bed by glowing breaks of auburn rays tomorrow.

Tell me you used me.
To make the no one you never had jealous,
and she’ll want you back by morning.

               But reassure me that until then,
we’ll embrace in parked cars,
as roads around us disguise themselves with a mask of slick ice.

  and each groping breath for each other fogs up glass on a 2006 Mustang.

Let me wake to the mourning dove coo,
and empty beds.
Let my hands bleed with fingerprints of the reminiscent touches of you,
         and hand me no cleansing rag.