behind the battered white of your eyelids, hanging light & droopy as wings, soft-snow & the bouquet of embracing oleanders in the back of the old truck.
your sick heart thrums within the burning silk of your melting ribs, still i remember the way you held your fingers as you fed the cat, in some gentle grandeur. the crow’s body in the basement.
the black rain, the morning i shrieked your name, how the stars limped and the night held itself over us like a severed neck. and then, the mid-morning sun.
the clouds with their machetes, filling me with your sweetness, the cigarettes you hide in the potted cactus that sits on our windowsill, the one i pretend i know nothing about,
like a ghost with teeth. strawberry milk drowning my tongue. our calloused, untouchable hands, entwined graves against the omnipresent dark of our half-imagined, moon-strung conquests.