each space between your fingers
is a holy sacred space.
might i lace my own between them,
i would feel nothing less than blessed,
to endure the synchronization of our pulses
in the melding of our wrists.

kiss
my
mouth
with the taste of suicide still in yours,
i long to consume the massacre
gurgling guiltily inside of you.
i know you hurt,
and i hurt,
and maybe in another life we were fated
to be each other’s medicine,
but in this one you are seven words
in six poems;
i’m five seconds of thought spanning four days;
three,
two,
one brush of prayer past lips. in desperation,
i pray you’ll seek me out,
paint our bodies by numbers until we count to infinity,
and then some.

women smile seamlessly,
men crook their fingers in a hunger delicious,
and we all fall into a cursed sobriety -
human nature is defined by our strength
to swallow preconceived prescriptions,
and i have a dozen pills to take each morning
but none of them cure me of this shattered glass yearning.
my lungs curdle, wet with the words i push back down
whenever i feel a pinch, a pop, a squeeze inside
that plays in the staccato rhythm of a two syllable name,
that plays in the urge to condemn myself by telling you
“hey, your smile is a sunset,
your laugh is an ocean,
and i’ve been trapped inside for much too long.”