Young

I am almost scared to breathe you, so new so fresh so hot on the tip of my tongue, so southern comfort for wet nights. I wish I could talk right around you but I’m surrounded by this glass on my teeth; I laid it out over time to punish for the way you flash your own at me. But more about you; the way your skin was so matte and how you can curl up against my clavicle anytime, the way you hear the hushes and I can save you. The vanity of wine and hands and when the sun goes to sleep is not lost on me anymore. I still have too much to learn before I deserve you.

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Jumper

Under black body bag– you have the most beautiful smile, when our lips touch it’s like brakes screeching, sparks. You look at my mouth when I talk sometimes and we both know what that means and our corners fold neatly upward and connect and you are the light at this tunnel’s end moving closer. Packed like sardines in metal tins on tracks, jolting makes our limbs touch and touching makes our limbs jolt, yellow yellow red line lightning bolt with soft hands and breath like a peppermint stick. I will stay behind this designated line for your moments.

Don’t leave me behind.

When these words try to choke us like whiskey and ice on a Thursday night with dimmed lights and my eyes down to linoleum sights only to let you know I’m always right when I say we’re wrong and we both know it’s us both and we both show signs of wear though these stitches were tight once like our fingers on ice, you can give me that look again. I will not assume the worst this once again. I won’t pretend it isn’t happening but I will listen to that rambling vocal aperture you provide to hone in on what has settled in my heart’s left lower valve like a careful clot. I’ll love you if you leave me not.

Ownership

I would take your lungs if I could. Personal property becomes pertinent these days, like willow waves pressed between pages you wrote love notes on. “I’ll love you forever, put your legs on my shoulders, kiss me ’til the moonlight breaks like a lightbulb in my clench fists.” Remember when you scrawled this? I would have written your name on these fingers like a burn mark, some sort of red scar, visual confirmation of the truth we both knew and grew to detest; I could never love you best, never better than the white powders or fermented wheat, too literally written on this paper and too literally observed in your freedom vision quests. You never touched me best either so I won’t pretend this is about being upset. Possession is nine tenths of the reason we split into you versus me, one eighth of my fingers massaging my temples off of blue line trains in the summer, two fifteenths of the paint on my walls, six thirds of why I couldn’t imagine why you wouldn’t stay. I still pray to thank some sort of energy for your highway robbery, you walking away, your dereliction of duties and abandonment of space. Keep your keys to keep losing face. I keep my eyes up now to keep up my pace.