yoga poses in the dark,
recycling the exhales
as if they were
shreds of napkin scraps
riddled in ink.
what good is man
without a muse?
what good is light
without shadow?
these blinds are like
deep cuts in my dreams
with all their weapons unsheathed
as I wade in the seize
of your shaking.

sipping soy milk out of a
plastic straw,
my legs like vines
twirling, twisting, writhing
under cotton clothes
I can see the stones they've thrown
leaving bruises on my
monotone throat.
you are whiskey
and I am wine
they don't taste nice
together
but they work just right.

the last hit of that cigarette
in your old apartment
as your broad shoulders held up
my legs
and you carried me to the balcony
so we could watch the sun rise
what a ride
what a ride
what a ride