You taste like cold smoke in my lungs,
frigid groves and that knitted sweater,
caffeinated mornings and evenings inside,
gripping onto falsehoods to beg them to die,
and blueberries, sweet on my tongue,
wrist on my waist and leg between mine
sweat on your pillow and laughter chiming
in tune with the sound of your voice
and tell your mom they loved the gift,
and would you please hold me, dear?
You are visions of stars above skyscrapers,
thick bubbles, sore with affection and sleep,
bursting amongst the dark veins that glisten amongst the tired, lonely sky
white rooms and red hands,
medicine in my throat and cancelling an interview
and you are mine.
and you hold me like I am yours.
and I am so fucking tired of being second to last
bruised fruit underfoot and deeply-grooved seashells
but you pick me out, a whisper in the storm
an indefinite sprawling of tendons and tendrils
across my husk and my heart
and grant me respite, grant me hope.
grant me a hell of a good time.