the night's pale cheek
gilded with blonde hairlets,
shudders at something inside me.

i am like a forgettable painting
absent from Southern footsteps--

whatever silver dream spun
by that far-flung veil of flesh
and paint
since our singular rendesvous!

but i sleep in the husk of a memory.

so long ago,
you figure it matters way less than the last one
you just write
using a language made from sketches of her cells
having glanced at a handful of the ones
on her left hand

it's all just extrusions since the crash.

so every drop of blood you've nursed from that wound has made perfect, mind-breaking sense.
a greatest validation that indeed, it is red
yes indeed, we're all nested across some binding paradox
but there are good books and there are Rorschach tests--
i guess this poem is somewhere in between.

i guess the air is like a hummingbird
and she can taste the exotic nectar inside me.
can she bear the tension held
in my effortless decay?