I can’t think of anything else when your hand’s at the base of my neck:
A soft, narrow place for your callused fingers, the curve of your top lip.

It was only once I saw you hunched by your car’s back tire
And I felt the feeble, futile throb of fist hitting palm as if you held my heart there;

Over and over, I stayed on the porch until moths circled the lamplight
Until the drug relaxed its hold on your synapses, and you wouldn't look at me.

I can’t think of anything else. You’re grinning at the ceiling,
Your eyelashes rest on my cheekbone, Blackmill pours through the rooms;

Liquor works slow circles through my thoughts and my heart beats shyly,
strongly against your palm.