I can feel my heart
beating against its cage
like a couple missionaries
dressed and pressed
at my door on Saturday
eager to explain to me
the queue into heaven and say
nothing of God

it's night
or morning?
Some muted twilight
seeping through the shades
in a season between the
wholesome seasons
where it's too hot for closed windows
too cold for open ones

I have to measure my
fingers against the bottle
having long stopped counting
the drinks that are downed

I remember you
a bit
the best parts of our
scant fifty-two together

that night
maybe amid the seasons
where the clock sets
all wrong against the
charcoal skies,
but that night,
you bit me

I still feel it pulsing,
electric in my veins

abandon caution
the moment I began my trespass
the way you meticulously attacked
every sense I knew

peeling away all these
unnecessary layers
as the shadows were already
heavy enough
but peeling away
every apprehension
simply to press against you
and let, like butter,

my tongue melt

on your tender skin