Laced, we smoldered
but still broke apart,
our sharp edges goading us
past sins and dungeons,
through our thin breath which had long ago gone stale.
We might not have been who we said we were,
but rather, gaudy imposters.
I remember one night I kissed you and your skin smelled
like tollbooths and gummy bears,
ginseng and Indian ink.
You wore an outfit with the tags still on it and told me to aim a little
northeast of the waist band.
I recall one week we camped in woods with a jagged river underfoot of
and you had a hookah with you and demanded
that I kiss you like a mongoose.
We were random and loose,
spindles and specks cartwheeling in the wind.
I took black and whites and watched your face develop underwater.
I sang you songs I made up on the spot
and once it made you weep.
In the end, though, I held your wrist so that I could feel a pulse.
I used my finger to trace our shattered history.
I wanted to lance our hands
and stitch our skins together,
but you took a step back,
and said, “I can’t stand it, how little you expect.”