the fifth tuesday
minutes before the movie ends, the candle burns
out like clockwork. i think of numbers, firsts
and lasts. we’re a mess of legs and interlocking
fingers as you shift to kiss my neck. it’s dark.
in the house you found me, the hollow beneath
your shoulder is a quarry. i can feel all the bones
below your clothes but still i grab your jumper
to bring you closer. waiting to wake up with you.
you’re asleep. i’m on the doorstep, freezing.
‘fresh air’ is a fumbled excuse for making poetry
from these moments. in-jokes. weeks ago you
were unknown, but time moves faster here.
most things are a mystery, like a stranger laughing in
a silent house. i could explain this in sentences. verbs.
words mapping us with coffee dates and late nights,
but i won’t. i’ve got cigarettes to waste with you.
No comments:
Post a Comment