I count the walls around me,
floorboards gleaming, bed
unmade, I do not hold
a cigarette and I am not
your wife.

pulled gently
but the scalp was smooth and cleft
strange I thought but it will be ok

While the wax is drying I write different endings to our story
They always include the ceremony she suggested
where we lick bee syrup off each other’s fingers

you are what keeps us here
life is a race

trauma is a baton
you place in my hands

No one trusts the city streets any longer, and the streets trust no one either. The buildings, too, tip their gutters to pour their algae onto mute life.

so much depends on how many

steps you are able to take

after crossing

imaginary lines