Sweaty backs on the top sheet
he-loves-me/he-loves-me-not.
We talk in the abstract
about taxes and family,
how some wounds heal
and others decay.
I’ll tell you what I know about riptides,
how you’re carrying me out to sea.
I wake up in a cold sweat
interrupting your comatose sleep–
petrified wood that fell silently.
I’m too scared to let you see
the cogs of my inner machine.
I’m a body of boiling blood;
you’re a cup of jasmine tea.
Let’s carve a headstone together
for the friend I’ll never be.
My lips over your heart, the closest I’ll ever be
to something unbroken and holy.
The space between your earlobe and jaw,
the line between joy and ecstasy.
I don’t know anything about peace;
I thrash like a fish caught on a hook
long after the pain is gone.
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