tin can transmissions
sent and listened to by entangled  
heartstrings long before
the birthday-balloon-blooming-doomsday-dance-off was
standardized as the answer
to any and all questions
regarding the textured pressure
of her breath blessing my forehead;
a vesper my wretched flesh is desperately stretching towards.

(i know, i know.)

this is a test of will.

(i said i...)

this is that mad dash
into the ashen catacombs
to slash the throat of the
last cackling basilisk
so passionately it shatters bone
into the rapturous jazz
crafted with cracked saxophones,
maps the fastest route
to her faceted fathoms
reconstituting past afternoons
in which i was never fortunate
enough to touch the gravity of her
napping naked beside me.

this has always happened
after a collapsing hasn't-yet
and it's enticing.