moss outgrowing angels
in the baby fog
of dawn.

the place
peeling stories
out of you,
the pretty face
invading you,
making you want
to talk to someone,
anyone.

he calls it eden.

here, the fingernail moon
is playing modest.

here, the stars
have room to think,
and because they think

they also want to know

about why words tremble
under the tongue, how
body beats brain,
and they beg, but

how do i tell them
about the man

with the laugh like confetti
breaking the sun into fire,
that sweet, sweet fire
of constellations that bite
my nerves, about the man
forging the sky on his chest,
the lightning in my legs?

he was there, you see,
from the first handshake
to the fatal heartbeat
at the other end
of the vein.

blood thinning under
quick kisses of glass,

the words fidgeting
out of our wounds
mean nothing,

the mouth spreads
like butter.

ankles protest
and i float to you,

but it looks like
you're leaving
for that world,

back to that world,
where we smile at screens
instead of at each other.