Post-shoulder bliss, that sag with words
that miss, that drag, that mark as wide,
the mark is forever mine, on bar tops,
crisscrossed with stolen drinks and wet
rings, a drip of lost touches, like friends,
drawing invisible lines in wood, with
hearts overhead, broken, a lost hope, a
white sheet spread, a body drunk, a
body touched, by another, so well,
so who knows?
so he will write with fingers, alone.