For you who did it anyway
If still you linger here,
At the stripped wires of your guilt,
For cheap luminescence in this,
Your thick and impenetrable sleep.
for you with whom i have lived
These four years in a doubtful span
Of unspooled lust, worms of revenge
In my gut,
Lined with powder and ice,
you cradled between raw elbows.
This, I recall,
the copper taste of your fingers
The hard, lustrous cherry tiles
Meeting my jaw
The dull edges of your stabbing
But not the swelling apex of your desire,
Before, the orange bottle popping pellets
As rice at a sudden wedding
At your firm invitation, my mouth brimming
With liquor and desperation,
Still then beyond recapture,
Bleached and naive to your touch.
You, without me there,
Pounding muscle to bloodless flesh
Were I to dissolve into London cityscapes
Out that soundproof window,
I would leave you with my bottom half,
line my bones up all the way
Across the rusted tracks to lay me home.
But I forgave as fast
As blackened snow
It was Christmas two days past
And one is meant to press these things
Between the pages turned, unread
The corporeal strike,
love left for dead.