nothing leads to nothing leads to sex

i've seen it, your peak of perfection, your still death under moon slit eyes, naked as yesterday.
a pale decay at the corner of our bed, three broken ribs under my pillow
your breathing sounds like dragging feet across the brooklyn bridge
wishbone lockets thrown ontop of the radiator, the burning marrow soaked in cat piss
flecks of your curiousity trapped inside of me, a snowglobe of unconcieved children
still i'm here, spread out across the floor, a bear skin rug, too bare to trap the mud from your shoes, parchment fingers too curled to pick the secrets from your laundry.
that snowglobe turned to a woodenstove, sorting through each object you left behind. burnt hair and candle wax. you cant have the part of us that grows on the walls of my chimney stack. theres no us, only me, scraping away at my internal tombs tangled corridors. how are innocent people formed from the vile acts of spite and liquor soaked nights at such young moments? apple cores got planted instead of seeds, and this whole rotten city was birthed in return, is it the same with dogs or birds or children?
on the count of three darling we fall out of this together, both waiting on the terrible anomie we'll slide into, only i've never been good with numbers, and i can't say things once over, so lets try six, or twelve or whatever it takes for us to dismantel our rare bodies that hold together in such odd forms.





i'll see you next september, lets make it a regular thing: me forgetting my shoes, you forgetting to pullout.