once upon a time
I floated
through rooms.

we were ghosts
draped in human furs and
red felt flowers
to keep ourselves warm.
candles unburned
on either side of town
using illness as an anchor,
refrigerating whispers before we regret
finally saying something.
I was a grave when I wanted to be
a stove.    you
twirled to the sound of my fluttering
lashes: broken and
sloppy     untimed;
the way you glanced towards me
on street corners.
I could tell by the books you held,
the women you didn’t,
shield of solitude with heavy eye contact,
a light coat and no gloves and no verbal complaint
about the term addict being thrust upon us that
you were cold and you
didn’t just act strange,
you possessed it,

me, and the leaves are turning,
I sniff patiently.        sip hot water with
lemon and basil.
someone sang on a makeshift stage of
upside down milk crates.
you looked sidelong, gingerly,
an afterthought that led me here.
I played with my hem and revocation,
silence that halts
you make me feel young, I mouth
to the ground.
you returned the gesture with a half-cocked grin
that looked prepared and returned to
accompanying yourself.
the ground fell away and
I was a picked thorn;

some perspiring flower,
I knelt in a corner
a stem growing from a red plastic cup,
cowering and open
knowing this crowd rocked you
in her drunk cradle.
you walked by with a glass
and no one else and
a relentless aposiopesis.
first sight and I’m swallowed,
swollen with ideas of our
first life.
come first light
I will be buried in drool,
all blue everything
wandering around for a chance
to pass you.
tiny eyes and barely a
move, I watch you pass effortlessly
like my continual gap years.
turning to give each other one last glance
over our now bronzed shoulders,
I adjust my strap so you think about skin
      (I’m swimming in it)
and that chilly way we do:
show a little set of teeth and move on
in a pool of cool air and unresolved disorder,
I keep coming back to the idea
of meeting you             

and I need that
like a shark
needs blood.



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