What does warmth mean on the skin if it doesn't touch it?
Sun babies sewn back, strewn, lay wayward across the mattress.
It melds with the carpet and it asks what it means to be intimate.
Every time I see your hair in the bathroom sink
I run the warm water down over it and watch it stay
because I'm too empty to scrub it.
I pace between these two rooms and I never see the hallway.
I see a swollen scab and I think of your tongue.
That doesn't mean much.
I wish you hadn't bought all the lightbulbs at the dollar general.
All the innards slant diagonal and it makes me uneasy.
And could you wipe the grease out of that goddamn pan already,
it's going to get dirty.
Do you want another?
I still notice how your eyes move out of focus when you hear this,
This song replaces things.
I think I could tell you that my skin knows you
and that when my skin loosens, it's for you.
There's a reason we don't keep lampshades,
although, I do like the texture.
I hope you have moments in the way I have moments,
I hope you watched the sheet as I folded;
lifted my back upward, made my small visible to you.
You make me feel so crude.
You take your time with silence
and you breathe in inconceivably shallow decibels.
I hope sometimes molecules don't talk, too.
Writing at length was never my thing,
but both can be heavy.
Fractured light bent through, on, and in the cracks of the windshield
making that bruise of a moment look like a glistening geode.
You motion forward at me and bring your hand back to yourself
and I feel floating.
What do you think about that second car?
Like my salvia, it's always regenerating.
If I want to lift a dry tongue
I'll have to forget.
Those lightbulbs aren't the only thing with slanted bowels.
I knew there was a reason I bought that purple dildo.
You look so comfortable when you're not in my bed.
When we went to Tulsa, you covered all of me.
You made the solidity of the vehicle look porous and malleable.
You seemed to shift shapes with the light
but no matter the contour I felt like I could move into you;
your body like curtains I could just sideways move,
If I wanted a part of you, I got it when the door frame scraped my skin.
I got it in the rug-burns.
Any open wound was where you skin slipped right in.
I'm sure you're my regeneration and my foreign organisms.
When you speak you blister, it isn't the way Etta Croons,
but I always was more contemporary.
I have a thing for your grit.
If I swallow and I like it, does that mean I'm a fiend
or that I love you?
When I see a continent I think of your body.
Comprehensible when marked and hugging a flat surface,
but when textured, pulsing out of peripherals and traveling underground
- unbearably intangible.
Your eyes get more blanketed than most things.
You only live in those shadows and in so,
I see what you mean by the texture of lampshades.
Spoke spinners became night dwellers, sun quenched thread thinned
clinched as bodies lay under a ceiling the texture of a sidewalk.
And the bodies in between unmind the intimate.
I left a few things in the sink for you.
And in turn, I kept your copy of your favorite text.
“Gott ist tot.”
“Yet his shadow still looms.”
I pretend like you still live here, but I still wash bacteria from the mattress.
It still warms when I scrub it.
I pretend like you still live here,
and that's why the wood strip between the bedroom and the hallway is still crooked.
But unlike the skin, the hair could drain.