The hook of your nose. Your shitty
been up all day
hair. The stink of you and your laundry pile.
You awe. Eye shadow? No, black eye
from not enough sleep, or was it restraint? This time,
heels across the end table, rained through and bubbling on your porch,
finish on fake wood, toes wiggling,
we'll talk about light fixtures and plans for
horses powered by unicorn clouds. Or farts.
Your smile is tame.
Your leggings are awful great.
You're never here when I am.
Myself the same. I want to know.
My coordinates? They're encrypted for a reason.
You awe.
Inspection. Not authorized. Inspection. Not authorized!
Inspection. Not fucking authorized!
Shoulder to shoulder in the yard. Watching ships come and go.
Turning their lights on.
Shutting down. Turning their engines, exotic and common, over and
gone.
You are.
Can I wash your hair? You look like you've been
up too long. I have. I promise to be gentle.
I don't really smoke either.
Can I? It's dumb. I know. To ask. Putting.
I won't. Don't mind my eyes.
Piecing you. Assembly required later.
Recreating and rebuilding the vision.
That burst sun rays in the afternoon along your neck
while your head rested on your fist
and the wine bottle mouth gathered flies
and our insides went
tick tick tick tick.
I love you.
Saying hello and coming out
a screaming white hot AYE!!!!
My toes wiggling in the summer air
on the other side of the table
searching for film and reel and real
in common.
You awe.
