The night is thick with hot lead,
bullet dust. His empty pockets
strangle his hands that once were full
Beer drips from his words, he buries his head six-feet deep in my lap. Catching the scent of love, he moves faster than tomorrow.
I laid out my arms,
and across the world to make it,
but his poison comes with the smallest gesture,
his lips against my back, a
hot cyanide whisper as he rises,
He throws on his shadow like an old jacket, hands back in his pockets.
5 a.m. I’m alone.
Face down in a puddle of his poison, I drown.
Tomorrow will catch up with me,
I’ll eat the sun for breakfast.
The earth will grow wild berries
and he will come to find me,
on a Hot Sunday,
back into bullets,
he’ll spread my arms by my wrists, untangle my naked fists, furious at his abandon…
but, for him, I will lay across the world to make it,