His hands the freckle on his upper lip the way he gasped when I took off my shirt That couch with the pleather cushions that slipped like bars of soap through wet hands The Pacific Northwest rain I couldn’t see through the black out the tall windows Just my reflection looking back at me as I straddled his sweet lap His runner’s legs My hair stuck up like a rooster’s do’ and him wrapped around my waist My brain The way I wanted his love so badly for so long I mistook his touch for a warm home cooked meal A bottle of sweet wine

A coat

Communication

Communion

The lack The excess What a small word for such a grandiose coupling The all-consuming desire for reciprocal love The slow sink from his grace His embrace I never moved on Why should I in the next life I wanted him in the last one too and when I found him sitting so nonchalantly on a garden stone I screamed

Vagabond boy

Flame-flickering arsonist

I’m a suffocator

We choked to death.

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