My question

why desire slips

like the strap of a tired woman

that she doesn’t correct

and fallen, without purchase or hang

loses shape over time

till we forget outlines

and think we lived in twilight, far too long

maybe it is sickness, the unease of our bodies

grinding their bones through years forgetting

the limber flight of youth

or maybe the tar on our hearts

a cancerous reminder, of all disappointment

yet sometimes in unwary moment

there is a glimmer of what was, mirror reflecting sly smile

like burgundy suits your sallow complexion

as you sit at the bar pretending you can drink

from thick punctured glass swirled in your hands

remembering dark cigarettes, the fast hit of nicotine and fear

the glazed song of her shoulders

beneath your hands before they grew chapped

how you ran without fear of foot ache

on cobbled streets awash with mirth and regret

not knowing yet, not knowing yet

and spun in that chair for his stare shamelessly

for all of life laid out like a stolen carpet ready

dancing with arms held above your head to the pulse

of something alive not dead, not dead

standing hip cocked in stairwells, fornicating in coat rooms

anything longer than a glance, time unraveled and pranced

how many piques does it take?

How often head down, vomiting make

the spirit weary, and no more a butterfly ache

to burn against dying light, once, twice, thrice

in her arms, spun with gossamer

everything shines when you want it to

when pain has fled and betrayal hangs back

watching you burn yourself out

a lovely lingering second-act

I miss taking your hand and leaping

it is slow, this thing of contentment

every time I relive the urgency

memory becomes tarnished by the slug of horror

pursed behind my eyes

near dying has that perpetual gun

eventually you turn

and finding odd reminder

hold your hands behind your back

disguising the shaking

no longer able to throw it off

counting moments unjarred

like four leaf clover