Will you explore me now?
Of course you discovered, laid claim,
surveyed and drew me.
But I am altered.
Our careful step-by-step paths
are trod smooth.
And I know them now, can lead you.

Will you take from me now?
Of course there are scars. Seams torn apart.
Scratched earth once shone to your touch.
Cradled and rocked, its
fine glowing dust hid in dark
secret spots.
And I know them now, can show you.

Will you feast with me now?
Of course I had little to give, but
traces of then took root, flourish here still.
Nourished by years
and by others, bear fruits worth picking apart
before tasting.
And I know them now, can feed you.

Will you return to me now?

we were all chatter and woodsmoke,
white wine in the sun-
age is a number slid from his tongue (to mine) and
(my whole world was rewritten that summer)
(his) touches (our) kisses (my) skin
moved with a rhythm, and age was a number
simply that, and no more
(though my number was small)
we felt safe for a while, then hidden,
then trapped.
age is a number slid from my tongue to his skin,
(from his skin to my thighs)
slid between us like sweat
(like a mantra)
weaving saliva-salt spells
(his) touches (our) kisses (my) skin
moved with a rhythm, and age was a number
simply that, and no more
(though his number was great)
we felt safe for a while, then hidden,
then trapped.
(then we were gone)

If the sun was to burn out right now, it would take nine minutes before it reaches the earth.
Nine minutes before the world ends
Nine minutes before we all die.
If you knew that, if you knew that you were dying, how would you spend those nine minutes?
Would you apologize for breaking my heart, or leading her on?
Would you scream my name while standing on top of a building, or would you scream hers?
Would you run to me, or run to her?
How would you spend those nine minutes?