blistered lips

someday
i will come for you
and we will go
away

those left behind
will talk about us
our callous hearts
our selfish desire

fugitives, we will fuck
our way free of them
while fucking them over
fucking convention
fucking expectation
fucking our hearts out

like they knew we would
like the said we would

fucking will be
our new religion
you cock will be my communion
my cunt will be your baptism

and we will be happy

like they knew we wouldn’t
like the said we wouldn’t

I ask myself the same question. No doubt, others wonder, too.

While you’re tall, it’s in a gangly, almost akward way.

You’re quiet–except when we’re alone. I think it’s because you know I am safe for you. At least that’s what I want to believe.

You do read. And I like that. You even read the books I give to you. I like that even more.You bring me coffee in the morning and think I’m cute, even desirable, with bedroom hair.

You like to surprise me with silly, inexpensive presents. Like the frog that measures rainfall. And the set of butterfly magnets. Of course, there’s the love notes and cards I find here and there.

You’re not afraid to cry with me, although sometimes I find it more contrived than honest. I guess you could be more introspective. But perhaps you’re working on that?

Sometimes we are passionate about the same movies. Other times not. Either way, they give us plenty to talk about.

You teach me things. And don’t think it unmanly to learn from me.

And you don’t try to get me to eat lobster or lamb.

I think that, as far as couples go, we are doing okay.

Don’t you?

i miss her
the body is as bold as ever
but the eyes
the eyes:
they are empty sockets

unable to heal
it’s christian zeal
that keeps the razor from her wrist
only barely

yet:
barely is enough
when
the heart is collapsed
the soul is stopped
the blood is curdled

but i miss her
and have seen your longing
locked forever into canvas metaphors
you shove beneath your bed
and stack
pile upon pile
in the corners of your different life

so we miss her
how we do miss her:

the poetry she kept in cupboards
for rainy days and rainy friends

the tears shed in buckets
for me, you, god’s children and debbie lee

the lust that moved her to seek
a reflection
that would make the need for the razor
obsolete