I Was Her Before The Sun Went Down

and who was I at midnight?
Your throat on firewater, swallowing
baggy, flabby tongues.
It is no matter,
tonight is seven hundred stories high

and I am ready to jump. Before I do, though,
I remember you
and sitting on your lap,
the shot,
the bounce,
your heavy gunman.

The moon has a chain on it,
this I never told you,
I put it there myself, several years ago.
It lingers patiently, sleepily awaiting me,
tied up and braced for thunder.

I will come pounding from the top
of your world, the last one I was shown,
up seven hundred staircases
to reach,
to grab,
to attach myself to the moon.

I have a long connection from brain
to chest, in gentle condition,
you were always soft,

not like this scratched metal chain
stabbing in to thin purple veins, on purpose,
a reminder.

A reminder that it is always just after midnight,
no matter what anyone says.