The dark sky has constellations –
it reminds me of you against my body,
forlorn indents of other men’s teeth

now you lick and heal, they left me to
bleed.

Your white washes grain between
my toes: once infected by the smallest
corner of fungus from his mind.

Precede to the moments I am made of,
each second with you I am also
stuck with me,

needing to be healed and revived.
With you, I cannot be hollow anymore.

But I can hollow you, constellations
against a dark sky. I worry that
the sun will burn you like it did me
hiding behind those other men’s teeth.