Do you toss the novel lightly?
-- Does it pound like your warbling
throat?
When you sleep beneath your
brother's armpit in trembles,
an etch collects the final drafts
of sick glasses, smoke and
Scottish gin patting your cheeks.
They are light against
dark undertones, the folds
of a curtain tucked for a spider's habitat;
for you.
I trace pirouettes in the back of
seamless air, countertop
wished to a balcony.
You do not stand (here).
I waste and recycle my fruit,
and sometimes naivety makes way
towards dented knees,
calves flexing in grey scale.
Once, we intersected city sc(r)apes
through glowing letters,
bar blinking red and I still clicking.
That is when my scent imagines,
eyes but a clam,
lingering in your body's bread.