My mouth can’t recall
the way my lips curled
before they met hers,
when kissing was
something people did, then
something that lit me on fire, then
something people did.
The thought of her
no longer loving me
is what I try to drown in gin,
cut free from my skin,
smoke out of me like bees
made a home of my ribcage,
caustic, burning holes
through my eyelids until
my irises spill heavily
into my palms like the
egg yolks we separated
on Sundays, when
breakfast came at lunch time and
lunch came after we
made love, lying lazily
on her newly washed sheets.
We loved with the
full force of naivety,
ravenously, brazenly, but
nothing gold can stay.