a shuffle,
my half smile directed at a windowsill,
dulcet pause
wrap a throw around bare shoulders,
strapless bra, i’m mussed enough to form new creases,
stretch my tousled jaw
into a long yawn.

I can see your long trail of spit
glisten lightly like snow,
from elbow to the scar
above my wrist when I was
really hitting the wine.
I wipe it on the pillowcase.
my lips are sand dry,
my knuckles crack a bit,
toes are curled for a different reason
this time,
your shadow growing larger:
an elongated feeling that stretched and stretched and stopped
right before
it got to mine,
bit back,
toss a look over brawn shoulder

I’m no feast, you know,
but you wait,
like a winter hunger
for that hot spot to hit the ground,
linger, drizzle, moist and green
and all blue skies from now on.
some sunflowers, a tomato plant,
bees offer their honey from the bottoms of their
black bellies and you take all you can get.
sniff a tulip,
feast on cool breezes of
when I’ll have it.

I cough or sneeze
and no make no motion to ever
be haunted;
to ever be eaten,
to ever grow something from the arm
you licked that used to hold little butter knives
towards him, towards me,
hold scissors and think about it,
hold shot glasses to not;
where I used to force myself to hug my brother
at Christmas
and nights now, days too,
any holiday,
I etch his name everywhere it fits;
where you watched the sun
shadowplay with branches on my olive skin
and you mistook them for
fingers to grab,
where I stretched myself,
a bored tiger, and lifted my once
impaled bones, my once river bones,
-wet for it every time-
up, held my hand up,
nails long and dry,
held your gaze,
waved without change in
your back to the door.
me, sitting up in a fetal position,
my profile reflected in the
dusty whites of your eyes
I have developed a new shade:

smudged green eyeliner and
the rest some kind of
lovely barren.

”how they leave,



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