I always fall
asleep in you
like an iron lung
the breath that seethes
some calm in my limbs
seized by stratospheric
cold.
Even in anger
my skin will cry out
to you and weep
for your chest
and should you be far
I keep
my last hope of repose
in orange bottles
hid between the wall and
the bed.
You can hate me
for saying this, but I
envy the shots of sleep
you take, instantaneous
nothing
indiscriminate rest,
needless dreams you never
remember in the morning.
Oh my love, I
remember
and often wish I couldn’t.
I make love to an edge
whose switchblade
is cloaked
in smoke
and these ceaseless careens
between folly and purpose,
wickedness and some
kindness I learned
in a past life
this bleeding for
an assassination of the body
that saves the
soul.
Body that has never learned
to smother itself in austerity
to make room for brighter hues
Body I cut and curate and
burn to the ground so that
it might,
one day,
remember that it has
only ever been
dust.
Body that holds you like a child
and aches to be known by your hands.
7/11/19.
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