Low saxophone vibration and your voice
mumbling half-sleep-talking phrases,
Is this what you want? But your
sleeping self forgets-I never want
anything-Yes please. Scrambled,
while teeth grind a symphony of
You Undress, then Dress, Get Ready for
A Pile of Saturated Imperfection,
I Adore, Fear, Anticipate.
Because it is not a dream.
Because your skin, always salty, invites .
Because I can’t think of one reason to not .
Because knowing never means learning restraint.
Because you wont say no.
Car slides off the highway, 007 soundtrack in the background, so well groomed, short hair and gunshot residue fingers still sticking, pulling imaginary triggers-click-click-click. Empty chambers. Misplaced shells. Crunching metal and plastic, an upside down scraping to a stand still-Silence. Through tumbling glass beads, I crawl out. Click. No pursuit.
In perceived distance, smoke rises. You will be waiting, tense but determined.
It was the strangest thing, Like
a memory, but not mine.
Twenty three year old song plays
on the jukebox in a corner cafe’
Where they serve fantastic
bacon and eggs on too small
plates, caked and crumbing.
You want breakfast.
Top Button of Your Jeans
Arms Above Your Head,
the Rise of One Hip,
Already coming up with a story.
Already washing the brackishness from my mouth.
Already fabricating regret.
Already stumbling up stairs.
Already wondering when we will do this again?
His shadow waits, avoiding the glare from streetlamps, passing cars, dog walkers. Weight of every decision pushing down, slipping from pockets and mutely, nimbly, caressing the grass. From your bedroom window drip his crumbling promises. Stains on carpet. Remorse-which is always empty, like your heart, like his gun.
Regardless, we fight through it, fight him. There will be no tenth part. I am still running towards you. Resolute.