he says, "i think of you
every day."  recalling
how i slipped under his skin
like a paper cut, suddenly

bleeding onto a cream towel,
we starred in an erotic film.
he says, "i think of what
happened."  he sees life

cinematographically, angle
shots curving to our cheeks
paired like resting wings.  i
could commit suicide during

our deserts of silence.  how
can he endure thirst, the water
of phone everywhere.  he says,
"i know."  i know that already.

caught on separate ledges, we
feign a game of ouija: who
can read the other's mind
first and spell the phrases

we can see, behind glass
souls.  jagged-edged words
which shred the eardrum
like coral, unexpectedly

fragile.  tiffany vases
we refuse to bid upon,
fearing loss, instead
we remain quiet, linger

between damnation and ecstasy.
sometimes, an outline of a noose
forms the edges of his+my room
as sorrow fills the space

like tar.  i am burning
as if the sun were drowned
in the ocean.  sobbing
won't increase the odds

of his+my release, only
clears the skies of his
haze for a day.  to return
and speak is the origin

of evolution, we can begin
shedding fossil layers of
raw skin and cracked bones
to reveal our place of birth.