There isn't much to say;
the hot, bleached grid system
is no longer a map to my stars.
And I wouldn't say that
unless I meant it.

Your faces are too smooth -
like honey over burnt bread,
I can taste the sweetness over
your selfless stripped sky
and your blistered babies.

The sun belongs to the city;
boiling the bay water, until
your skin falls off and reveals
that you are as empty as I was
before I left. Your sun touches
you; molesting your flesh like
a surgeon preparing rib eyes.

Of course, I'll say it:
When I return, part of me will perish
with your evaporated esteem -
finding that piece of you that I took,
hoping that you will forgive me
like how I have forgiven you.