I wanted
to stand in a rush hour turn lane
and kiss you until we both tasted enamel.
Air thick and sweet with the hot scent of living,
knowing we’re dying.

Unfortunately, that particular situation is an impossibility.
An impasse if you will.
My inherent fear of cars,
coupled with a distrust
of horses,
would prevent me from standing in any road
during any point
in the evolution of travel.

So I stay inside.
Listen to another night of the neighbors having ***.
Seeing if this week’s guest star will be
whiskey damp apologies
or just more broken glassware.

Maybe I’ll get naked and play with guns.
Wonder if
my palette is refined
enough to taste new
spit on your smile.

I don’t suppose I could.
There’s no frame of reference.

Lens spray in your glove box suggests he wears glasses,
but very little else.
A glasses delivery system sliding his cigarette stained
hand up your dress in the theater.

Was it because I didn’t care
how much weight you lost
or how many people had been inside you?
Didn’t mind how the backs of your ribs
jutted through your skin into
the lacework of your blouse?

whisper in my ear and tell me you hate me.