I decide it's better to live like a hang glider,
to look down at rivers
snaking towards hips.

Better to hold handlebars
like cold lips.

Better to take the tongue to teeth,
than try to guess what's
in her coffee.

I'll be high
in the morning;
still a speck in her eyes,
as she pukes in the Cheerios
and tells me not to look
because it's unbecoming.

But I've seen her puke when
we're watching the Dog Whisperer.

She'll be staring up at me

and I know
that
she'll
be thinking about hanging a motherfuker
with a tight rope pulled
from a trapdoor
hinged by her
lavender *******.

Let me fall to the earth
through that opening.

Crush me
with the nails
that hold you together.