There is an urgency, and cynicism, in your disposition,
in the way palms cup – hips with
the weight of everything that was not us atop your shoulders.
It stays strange how slickened bodies rhyme
as though couplets; in some thoughtless or thoughtful sonnet
and yet still empty stays my love
and Cox, and Nesbitt, and Oliver
this Pacific shares your home, and Atlantic
and these palms could gain no purchase
in your day; my hour
and time is no gift for these fingertips
no, just flesh, sin, puckered lips –
such a gift of self-destruction
And falling apart by touch
these entangled souls.
and the days where these letters met silence
and the times when these cupped palms remained empty
and the hours between these dampened sheets;
and the immeasurable breaking of this ecstasy;
this vulgar love and loss
the keen imagination
the Sun in this lust
this knowledge that our love is borrowed.
And the story of our skin remains somebody else’s
and this exotic and slanted curve.
And that the names of these heroines still rhyme.