once upon a time
I floated
through rooms
draped in human furs and
red felt flowers
to keep myself warm. and
using illness as an anchor,
I was a grave when I really
wanted to be a stove. 

you
twirled to the sound of my fluttering
lashes: broken and
sloppy     untimed..
I could tell by the
way you held yourself,
the books and your 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.

      
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 prepared grin and continued
accompanying yourself.
the ground fell away and
I was a picked thorn;
some perspiring flower,

I knelt in a corner
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 apotheosis. first sight and I’m swallowed,
staggered,
swollen with ideas of our
first life.

come first light
I will be buried in drool,
wandering around squinting,
tiny eyes and barely a
move, I watch you pass
effortlesslylike 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.

I keep coming back
to the idea of meeting
you and I need that like a shark
needs blood.

“pool”