It's November and I am thinking of your
rough hands reaching up my sweater
because PA is so cold and
you are so entitled.

It's the kind of cold that coagulates
in your bone marrow and forces
its way into the fibers
of your clothes.

You are white-hot now and I
am pulsing in your palms--
dry lips choke me like smoke rings.
Between love and loose fingers, I ******

The stray dark curls falling
from your forehead. I collapse
into the brassy green light
of your stained-glass eyes.

And I should have known
by the shape of your handwriting
that you would leave me,
but I'll let your love

destroy me anyway.