Fracture my February,
the apple of your ribcage
and the blinding partition.
This is a calamity; this is something
I should never have bitten,
a fermentation under the
goose bumps of my skin.
A list:
never say
that someone has burrowed
deep in your dust, never
stop spinning long enough
to let the rich earth settle.
I loved being drunk on
your shadow. I loved
lunacy. Was the moon there
when we fell? The rug
certainly was, and I never finished
the sentence that lulled on
my lips.
. I never said
here’s a thing I have never touched,
but fell to it like
the night falls on grass. Listen:
the fruit of your throat,
words dancing around truth
as though truth had any time
for that shit. You say your body
is electric, and I say my heart
is spilling out wine and blackberries.
We are both right;
there are two exits and both are
burning, and I never truly loved
the charred sunlight taste
of your words on my tongue.