I would say I’m a gazelle to his lion, or vice versa-one of us feels eaten alive.  That he is the 10th time I’ve started smoking. That he is the match on the ground, the lit end burning sweet smoke to the sky.
That he is chilled sin in a high ball glass. That I am a thirsty, criminal tongue.  
I would tell you he is the rearview mirror and the road unfolding before me. That he is everywhere I want to go and nowhere I need to be.
I would tell you what’s gained walking through a fire love
is not a suffocation of being, but a blanket that covers the whole world.
I would tell you that even tarnished gold gleams under stain .
I would tell you he is a throwing arm.
I would tell you that I am a boomerang.