his breath to remind me of soil and
some decayed seagull that you found
at the beach that Sunday with so
much wind around you ruining
your hair and carrying sand elsewhere
and into my throat so I couldn't
scream happily like some stupid
dog or,
Pillowy mountain chest sweet heaving
teenager I'm so sorry my white noise
and your moaning and our endless
smoking made your asthma so
difficult but we're born with
the ghost of some infinitely
tiny
death wish and in sleep we
tongue at it like a loose
tooth or
exploring masturbation and it's
terrifying but somehow it's
better than that boring
tit in your hand isn't it?
We're not supposed to drink milk
after babies and I keep thinking about
what happens after you
get everything you could possibly want
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