Under Seat Cushions
yesterday, I saw you in my mirror,
five foot nine, or perhaps
another inch or two in heels,
I taste you in the bitter
sweetness of caramel creamer,
macchiato, with a little froth upon my lips,
I guess I keep
finding myself swirled
smack dab in the middle of your thickness,
there was a time I imagined escaping those
straight-no-chaser eyes, but now
I drink down the view, from the hip,
bracing back and fractured self for
the impact of your beauty,
it always manages to flatten me
by morning,
demanding that you take me back
to that angle against your bed,
the soft, loose filthiness of
our forgetful hands, fingers
that once rolled down skin like fog,
only to rise slow like whispers that became
only to rise slow like whispers that became
epitaphs for our grave,
once upon a time, we took a knife to this passion,
and we stabbed, and we stabbed,
it still refused to die,
but now your eyes are less chest felt shock
and more respirator,
reminding severed hearts that they are coma victims,
we barely breathe, on our own,
without being hooked up
to the machine that is this loneliness,
it beeps in awkward silence,
hellos that sound cordial, but never real,
yet always scream loudly in the backs of our mind,
you, staring at park benches that remind you of my writing,
me, pulling your voice from the scrapes of tree limbs
on those nights when the wind refuses to still,
and I wonder, why are we fighting this
together, alone?
earlier, I found our love, folded limply
under the seat cushions
of a heart, that feels less cozy
and a bit more used,
I wonder how long you'll sit here
