He leaned in, as if to say
All is sacred when pressed under the heat of my body
As if to say
That every moment you spent revolving in the atmosphere
Between your lips and his teeth and his tongue and your wasted words
Was the precipice
Of something new and beautiful
And he could only be described as the most freshly written check
A contract signed along the dotted line
His voice was an appeal to everything unholy
That lay beneath
You, hiding under bone and marrow and skin and darting eyes

but most days
he leans in
as
a memory
of touch and tease and
laughter tossed like quarters into a fountain