you are
the cosmos
in a paper cup.
i could drink all your space
from this fragile pouch,
and gladly burn the roof of my mouth
on the core of all your stars.

i wish i could bottle your laughter in a jar,
so then i could unscrew the lid
whenever i’ve been unscrewed myself,
a body separated into parts rather than a whole
and the demons inside crawling out to make
art on this canvas skin as red as their bitemarks;
this is when i would most need to have you there with me,
to hear that guttural joy from deep within your throat echoing
to me in the greatest dark.

they say vincent van gogh drank yellow paint
in order to find the flavor of happiness.
i can’t say that i blame him;
i think you’re like drinking yellow paint,
because ultimately you will **** me,
but you’ll taste so sweet going down.