by lamplight I write letters to myself,
describing the feel of rough loving
splinters etched along my spine, or
lost umbrella spokes lining the insides
of my bones, flea-ridden heart creaking
at the memory of you two months ago,
cutting your tongue on the edge
of an envelope containing a love letter.

I learned the trick from you:
when you would run butterfly touches
over bulletholes, sighing as linen
grazed your eyelashes and murmuring
sobriquets into soft surfaces -
flannel / skin / green grass and
kissing the corpses of moths that
died from ink poisoning during the night.

icamina conmigo/i, you whispered,
and smiled when I imitated those
fairest of elegies and fluttered,
shadowy paradoxical, into your light.

those cunning words lost themselves
in the creases of my elbows and
evaporated into the air I breathe,
and like a child underwater I can only
exhale, giving you away with each
syllable tossed to the paper, aflame;

isaint, sinner, my very own undertaker/i:
(the moths churn steadily in the night,
beating their wings against the undried
ink that stain the tips of their freedom)
and I fall like a star into your grave.