Pool Deck before the Burn

“I wish I could tell you just how I’m hurt,

                                    Then point the location, it’s in another universe.”

                                    —Ryan Adams

 

I.

 

I startled my dream,

twanging muse,

playing the smallest

violin for two.

 

For us:

I play chords where

the moist place in both

of us begs aloud.

 

So I hope it’s so.

 

II.

 

Every gasp you gave,

from thirsting lips,

a spread of love was wiped

on sward by me—

 

We might have just healed each other,

we might’ve been salve, rather than lather.

 

I am bent, I am not aligned,

I am not favored to remain

for much longer.

 

III.

 

I crave clots from ventricles,

pumping ceaselessly as I talk, pulling

grass violently from the ground.

 

Blood bubbling on a tongue,

I came to you, the hollow echo of Love’s last words

curbed to my throat.

 

I might have mentioned my hurt,

where I thought it was placed,

and how profound I thought that was

for you to hear about, then left, soon after.

 

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