I.
i am delighted by
small mementos
of your presence.
a single hair
on the rim of the sink
the stain of your boot
left worn into the carpet
scratches slowly healing
on the curve of my back.
tiny flecks of memory
you leave behind
like whispers to remind me...

II.
we have fucked
seventeen times
behind fogged car windows
and locked bathroom doors
on couches and chairs
and the floor
of every room in my house.
but i have yet to allow you
the coolness of the pillow
or the warm embrace of my sheets
when morning sun filters through closed blinds.

III.
the shower
has become our accomplice.
scalding wather
scraping
scent from under skin
skin from under nails
our indiscretions
swirling with soap
and disappearing down the drain.

IV.
sins of the flesh
become real
when told by the pen
and i swore
(in the way those who lie to themselves
often do)
that i would never write for you;

V.
but
at 46 minutes past twelve
you were backlit by sunshine
streaming through the open door
a dark form
glowing
as you approached
an angel
coming forth from light
i fell into you and
we broke
open, like dammed water
finally unleased.
your tongue, my neck
my fingers, your back.
lips and limbs
tangled in silence
our hunger
restrained only by the brevity
of stolen moments.

VI.
understand,
i can never belong to you
and you
are shackled to a broken fence
so we love in
half-notes and half-steps
an unfinished melody
and yet
i can't help but wonder
what part of you is left when i am through
because his face only slightly resembles yours
and i feel empty
without you near.

VII.
my darling, i can't pretend that this will last
or even that i want it to.
we have become lies
wrapped in flames and
the smoke
is fogging up your rose colored glasses.
please,
ask no more of me.
there is no us to have faith in
and i have already given you too much.