xx.

Lucien

we are our love languages / i wish we could make sense of each other. / i hate how obviously

we’ve been made / with love, / how ill-fitting summer is, / like a metal bucket under a leaky

ceiling. / i hate how clumsy i feel / in front of god / as if the world was ending / in a bowl of

figs / as i rememorise the smell of guilt / from the sticky insides of my mouth. / i might as

well have run with you, / two boyhoods, two dogs, / rereading the geometry of our scars. /

they don’t grow in the margins / between the spaces of my birthmarks, / loud asterisks that

were such / an absolute beauty on you that / i might as well love you disrespectfully, /

keeping my eyes where you wanted to go, / at home or on your chest. / it used to heave like a

wooden porch, / you know, / beneath the sun. it leaves the day after now / when your lips

used to be a few shades darker than your heart, / filling in the spaces between my lips. / i can

count how moths flicker / in and out of time now / without the help of your mouth / that has

left / the tongue of my mind / as you wonder / where i am / now that you were gone.