You touched her
like she was seven layers of cake,
consumed her, frosting and icing,
licked the plate clean.
You inhale the haze alongside her,
perch on a porch with a lit match between your fingers,
laugh and remember.
She touches your knee, you see?
That is remembering.
There is a photograph
on a wall.
The two of you beam at the lens,
coated in the glow
and did you know then
what you know now?
Her body coated in your sweat
and her paws entrenched in your back,
begging for what you are there for:
Atollic, parasitic, paradise in the sounds of your mattress.
Why do I lay amongst the ashes,
tongue the shroud entangling my lungs,
when I know it will only press thumbs into the wounds?
Her shadows have laced it with jellyfish sting, bourbon baptism, calculated suffocation.
Burn, it begs,
and I do.
I know your voice as if it’s home,
but she knows your home like it’s hers.
Where do I stand
when walls turn to dust against my feet,
when the ceiling tiles groan and beg to bury,
when the cigarette you hold between your fingers burns down to the last notch,
and you use old ways to remember?
I don’t want to be more frosting,
do not want to be cake.
I want to be the cotton candy sunset and the heavy boughs of the blueberry plants in summer,
and I want to be your place to hide.
If you must consume me,
light me aflame and devour the remains,
but know then I can only be dessert.
Because home leaves
when it is burned down.
05/23/19 (happy birthday!)