The night is thick with hot lead,
bullet dust. His empty pockets
strangle his hands that once were full
with pride.
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,
“I’m sorry.”
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,
melting lead
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,
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