like the moon behind

the distant trees,

like the wolf spider

beneath the bedroom door,

i retreat, into myself,

and become less than i was

before.

primeval days before the sun,

before she found us withering and quivering,

clutching our arms in the bare naked dark -

teach me a love beyond my ardent heart,

a way to feel the jagged edges

of your jawline, lit by heat and by

breathing,

bring me back to the heavy summer days,

when we shrunk beneath the weight

of her skin, glowing in the bronzed

and effeminate blood of

partition, wondering

what daylight might look like

through her glistening brown eyes.

the storm sounds different in every room -

we have these little truths, things

i remind myself of when your heart

slips its way back into my teeth, oh,

you were bred for returning.

you know home like no other.

no, i'll breathe in my perhaps,

and wrap myself in those cable knit sweaters

that hide my form

the storm speaks different when

i lift the wooden blinds,

bathing my room in the gray morning light,

and i lie on a bed that in the coming

months will no longer be mine.

i wonder if you could feel just the way

that i do, in the early june day, skin

sunburnt for the love

of how water flows oh is there something

about our home that only you see,

or is it just me, peering misty-eyed

into my greening backyard,

thinking of who else could ever know

to hold my heart how the spring

holds the dripping rain.

heathen love, let me be

of skin and flesh,

of careful breath in beds

stripped of linen sheets,

and rooms filled

with sleeping bodies,

let me be of seventeen,

a closeness sought with

hollow hopes, with you,

and your idle turns,

wear me like drying silk,

be kinder than you know to be

at night, the white wooden blinds

swell and shrink with the wind;

almost as though they remember

your chest, pressed against mine,

lit by only the stream of daisy pink light

spilling beneath the pearlescent door,

as though they too wish that you

were once again wrapped about me.

if i quiet my breath to only a whisper,

if i will my body to statuesque stillness,

i can almost hear your voice -

carried by the smell after rain,

in that wistful way our lips

remember the taste,

your question sings:

why did you fall out of love

and heartfully, achingly, i answer:

did you ever love me at all