to see          how well have I          been handling          your absence
or how soon can I          pleasure your time
you must stay the night
give us a chance          to manufacture layers
                              slowly partake in the recklessness of living.
Any making          as you know needs          fistfuls of patience.
I know          the intent of our love
                              will change its shape as it moves
                                     through the silt          of the blue night.
Under it                   our earthen bodies will change shapes too.

When you’re around          I often wonder
why don’t we make rooms          without ceilings
offer ourselves          to the spitting rain of open jawed sky.
Tell me
                          when was the last time          the world felt enough
for the bloody teeth in your heart.          Those teeth that pump
unwitting madness                    biting & grinding despite decay―
                                        oh if this isn’t enjambment then what is.
I confess I’m guilty                    of intruding your decadence
because I too wanted to share wildly
                                                  in the mystique of its unraveling.
                                                      How else could have I known
                              where my howling rims intersect yours.

In the chaotic stir of sleeping eyes
             overlapping dreams blazoned across brows―
                        how often          do we see each other
                                 how often          do we squirm
                            from every ouch wriggling inside every touch.
This life          feels like          ( how do I even say )
                                        oh feels like          such wordlessness.
I recount details of your face right after closing my eyes―
it’s the most I can do          to delay the mind’s greater troubles.

Just once I’d like to walk along
the perils of your desire
to understand in primal form                  the difference
                                                                between your fire & mine.
See it’s only on the stitches         of your seams
that I can invoke         the dance of my animal flame.
& all that is left of the sooty air―
our skinfuls of chests & mouths         will embrace in hunger
                                                                molten &      so so      bare.

It is important I tell you about the rabid
satisfaction of detection.          So often I recognize
what I truly feel          when I see someone else
feel it.
In fact, you could look at anybody
and call them a mirror          with a bespoke magnitude
of tint.          To all the people I’ve ever loved,
I want to say―

I’ve never understood the meaning of I miss you.
At best,          aided by the conspiracy of design,
I could only miss          the version of me
being around you          could gild.
Once, I humped a teddy bear on a dare
for the gladdest audience          I have ever seen.
Despite ranking amongst          the most luminous
moments of my life,          it never amounted to much.

So random are these synapses
that I can never tell          the points of inflection
in my bristling mutation―          from kid to person
to animal.          On touching someone I like,
I find          the mystery of manifestation          is unmistakable.
Oh, how we dive into waves          through blankets and planes
leaving cities          like monuments that walked away
from the burgundy dust of heritage.

Now the ease with which I invent a pimple
on my upper lip          from the night’s muggy sleep
is the same ease with which          I dog-ear every notebook
that graces my clotting ink.
In the miasma of correlations
life is,          I sift through books,          through bodies
feasting on spillages          from cells that decided
to shake off their rust.

Come, look at me          occupying a silhouette of hinges
moving relentlessly          to quench a spirit’s spatial thirst.
The history of intelligence tells us          the mind is
feather upon stone upon feather,          gentle heap
of madness          floating on time’s faint broth.
Here in cumulated hues,          I find I’m terribly
attracted to livingness.          Leaning forward,
I can’t help become          the crescendo of my breath.