ceramic paring knife to
pink lady skin
your chest tips forward to meet my shoulder blades
small in comparison
your arms build a tunnel around my rib cage
plenty of room to spare but we spare none
your face rests heavy to the side of my spine
lightly smiling lightly scratching
we share a pale transparency
of entirely different tones
yet matching
we share
the space
and
the sour
crunch
what happens now save every voicemail not that his tone would have been forgotten but to hear him call me tweety as many times as
the magic of a fresh cut i am literally lighter though not by much my shoulders have less to lug my neck has less to
write some poems that i can give him ok (but they’ll all be about the hims) good idea bad idea no good twinning and losing
peering through thick glass your back to me is waiting any news at all? running down broad steps into your brotherly arms crying without breath!
is it the ticking of the third hand or the faucet dripping onto discount bulk blueberries both measuring time “going in circles” as he would
you are your own though your temperament reminds me of him your head is more ripe mango while his was more soft plum my love
