and I think I said goodnight
a half dozen times—
but it was only to hear
how many times you were willing
to say it
back.
You
read your favourite poem—
and even though
you promised
I’d get lost in the rhythm
I found myself
in the colours of your eyes.
I stopped counting
days
and prayed for shorter
nights
because full moons are always more
accurate when it comes
to measuring you,
and Saturday afternoons—
where I watched parts of myself
let go
by a perfectible sky.
You once told me
I felt like a rainstorm
but tasted like winter,
so the two mixed
and my heart became an ice sculpture
at my own funeral—
black smiles
black t-shirts
black
like your coffee before you’ve kissed it
sweeter.
You told me
that rainbows
are just reflected fragments
of light
but I think they are what’s left
when a heart is removed
and the sun isn’t suffocating
under all that weight
and that is how love feels for me
right now.
My wings are clipped
because I can’t seem to love things
that don’t leave marks
I am left
with all the answers
but you forget to tap the
question-mark key
on your phone
and I only say goodnight
to see how many times you will say it
back.
I love the way you hold my name
in your mouth
like a hurricane—
you tell stories
over the phone
because some words are meant to be
left on telephone wires
like old shoes
but I secretly love it
when we sit in a state of silence
because I’ve heard the mortality rate
is lower there—
and the only sentimental things
put in boxes
are love letters that actually come
and I have been saying
goodnight
to you for the last few
centuries
and I am just waiting
for you
to say it
back.

you twirl your hair
because it’s the best way there is
for slowing-down time,
but your taste
is so softly
purring
and my filthy blood gathers pace—
i want to break down your walls
and tear off your clothes
in exactly that order—
pin you
down
and search your mouth
for answers.
who are you
when your hair is wrapped around my fist?
when your back
is arched,
and my mouth
is on your neck?

I bite my lip,
because no one ever tells you
kisses taste better
when you don’t see them coming—
so I break the skin,
just because I feel restless
and because it is
between me
and what I hunger for.
Faint tastes
of blood
in my mouth
move like a slow dance of nights
when
I came
(to you)
and everything you said
was a like a secret voice
boiling in the thick of my ribs.
I am somewhere inbetween time,
and the silent gaps
of your thoughts
curl to a place
where hands
of a clock
can’t reach.
I don’t know what they are called,
those spaces
that break the seconds—
but that’s when
I always think of you