Sweet like tide pool childhood.
I am a pilcrow on the back of your neck.
I am sweet potato fries wrapped in brown wax paper
and cradled by a small wicker basket.
In the morning when we were the first to wake
we took up opposite corners of the room
let sunshine be the only language between us.
Your words are still missing places in my torso.
These gaps in my ribcage are swoops and sways in the shap of your name,
like running your fingers over a picket fence.
I am not thumping about you anymore
I am not even making that kind of music.
what does it matter if I were.
Way back in September
we were just naked mouths jumping reckless into the ocean
And I miss being salty with you
I'd like to reset our bones
and keep something soft between us.
I met you too fast perhaps.
It was right and right and right
and right is not a direction
give me peace and pieces
and I will sort out the remains
make a pile
and graffiti our past lives to the sky,
you are not a willow tree in a hurricare,
that is only be breasts when we fuck
and I am not ready for this to end
is it over?
Because if it is over you can never turn the lights back on.
The lights in a flattened building can never be re-lit.
Are you going fast enough to knit back a contraption
to fuse our being back into closeness and be?
I am too many moon shadows these days
Our names forgetting each other
as fast as our ribs fell together all those months ago
I still need a few more moons
to smooth over the gaps in my torso.