there is some soft space of you always tearing into me.
black claws, coffee laden, drunk from the spirits.

I, a manner of scents ascribed by you.
tallow of night, drowsiness of hands,
wallowing  in the redolent shame
of past mistakes.

we can fjord a victory.  green-lanterned.
don’t mind the clocks.
we, relic of timepiece.

ticking lavender and bourbon and truffle salt
haloed in tobacco screens.

bitter, rapt mouths.

in a disheveled state, desired stupor
for fumbling hands,
the grief of desire
rakes us.

we know what the guilty do.
these streets were chosen.

we posted the lanterns.

oil light gills us.
I do not even regret the time, just the departure.

I am still filled with musk.

separated, only, by this death between us
can either survive, or meander on.