There is some decadent rise
limp during afternoon highs and
pulsing at moonlight, the morning
knows something I do not know –

glowing, too, at the clarity
the cut of one’s sum, you and I

we are constructed of limbs and
dumb ligaments, bolted joints
and pivots: but most of all,

tissues that bleed when separated,
is that the value our love holds?
Do our nerves have common
apexes, the sapphire ends?

How we glisten and shine,
but do not feel when torn apart –

I sometimes feel like a classic
piano you are playing, one white
key tortured by the skin that does
not match any other’s but yours,
my player’s, retching for noise.

And I will give louder than
midnight howls of a single man,
his fingers fell from his hand –

he knows the morning such as I,
waking up just to decay,

while muscles keep their color,
the sun, or absence of, gives clues:
like footprints, a duet in sand,
I should not wake up without you.