Sometimes,
I still
smell you
on street corners.
When the wet
lust of the sun
lays a lung on us.
One long breath
between the piss
and the matrimony
of skin and brick.
Shape-shifter,
you follow
like a spirit dog.
You swallowed me.
Easy on the gut.
I was.
Too weak to
speak on
god.
Or whatever
was
musing
through
you.
Toward
the end
you felt
a phantom limb
brush your sterling hair,
your filthy teeth.
I know you did.
One morning
I recollected it.
I fit it
in my
pocket
just to write this.
Now I have
no use
or clue
what to do
with such
pretty prose,
when it hasn’t
even
one
of your hands
to hold.
Your hands.
God,
those
little
wings.
My
saccharine
drip.
Now you creep
around
this city
Haunting me
as some
homeless
ghost.
I don’t
feel sorry, though.
I never worry
for you
anymore.
I thought
we were
separating,
I thought
us separate,
but
you were
never
not
of my bone.
You were
a lamb,
a gentle
kind.
Kin.
Sewn.
