It wasn't the same as a lash| you left
no marks on the body you used to
go diving for paperback hearts in| you didn't
slip slick blades through
hollows in vertebrae|
But you need to know| that
if I was a long smooth road
of skin and blood
and rhythmic beating| then you
you layed yourself over my ground |
Warm skin on my skin
when you chalked yourself out|
You then chalked yourself out|
And so I live| internally and carefully|
and watching/not-watching for potholes and crags
in the shape of your laugh|
and ditches and stains that reek of your name
and feel when I'm gone
like your arms|
It wasn't the same as a lash |or the
sweat on a brow or the crook
of a neck| so so
delicate|
Wasn't the same as a lover
and wasn't a fight|
It was the unmaking of wrongs| we can't make-believe right
We can't make-believe|
