you’re the pink-dripped prints in the snow
of a wounded buck;
i’m the bullet in your back

you’re the little stories i was told
of prints on the shore;
i’ve forgotten the feel of sand in my toes

you’re the between of me and the moon
far too much to cross;
i’m burning so slow for you

you’re asking me to light your cigarettes
wires wormed below your skin;
i lean over the sheets towards you, and

you’re gripping your fingers tight in my hair
bones against a hospital bed;
i’m coming down, right down to the end.