come on come on come on, won’t you look at me
as more than a cautionary kindness, barely touching,
these skimming hands so terrified of chafe? a fumbling
of lips, this thinly veiled repulsion, faithless and
blistering. always smoothing hair in rearview mirror,
teeth sore from the gnashing,
throat thick with spearmint.
always reforming my mouth around your name,
practicing the crest of it, the muscle memory. this
crunch, hands so slow, this quiver of fingers
interlaced— slick heat and swallows,
the muggy blaze of breath.

can’t we fold our hands together, weaved like prayer,
except without my knees on your chest, these
frantic recitations, these manic murmurings? can’t we
lace our brittle bones, gapless and infinite,
all these cosmic incarnations echoing
through time and space?