cawing a rhyme scheme of past lovers’ names.
Don’t seek drunk kisses, they find you
in a high-rise where vinyl afterthoughts pile.
In her atmosphere, all I craved was her body of work
after bars, a stroll as uncomplicated as her bookshelf.
Our town’s got lies to share, shaven legs to slide,
but all I cared for were her barren margins.
Too many bookmarks, too shallow into pages.
“The books are all mine, in me…”
same as drinks on lips used to touch others’ glasses…
Permanent sunset mounted her mattress.
She’ll photograph more sun, she promised.
I thought: Don’t. Photograph the dead.
Drink, swallow them in their moment.