I am a shifting sky,
pale of pomegranate pink
to the desert plains of your
sloping skin stretched over
your bony fingers. Please think
of me when you press digits
to your lips, feel inked
numbers pulse in your pocket.
Expect me in a leather jacket
shining like oil-packed puddles,
breath heavy like smacking cigars
against brick walls and tonguing
the mortar. Expect me burrowing
my nails underneath your wedding
veil, chipped polish closing
in on the chiffon, expect my noose
of sheets to use your fabric softener,
the scent of your bed, fresh,
before we laid down in it.