there's a residue of wheat-paste
stuck to our fingers. each time we part
to adorn the concrete walls
with antifa posters, the molecules grasp
for one another, suctioned together, desperate
to hold each other
just a moment longer.

absently, i remember
the last time my fingers were glued
to your contours. you grasped my hand
then, as well. only tighter. held me firm
by the wrist as we eclipsed and i slipped inside
you, both body and mind. between clenched teeth,
a gasp of bliss traipsed
like a brushstroke across your tongue.
you ripened, sticky as a pomegranate
split wide open, slick and sweet and pink.

i will never again be your lover—at least,
not in this lifetime. but tonight
you were my partner in crime
and i like to think that maybe
that counts for something.