You told me not to smoke under the bridge
anymore. I trust you.
You sense spirits.
But right now my breasts hurt,
and I hold my arms over them.
This is all me,
this tenderness, hot skin.
I dream of the bridge, mist puffing
like fog from your fog machine,
the moon like a strobe
cutting through clouds. Remember
Your hands were machetes in the black light,
the pulse of music.
And your mouth on my ear,
whispering as your fingers slid down the small
of my back.
You have a binding spell on me.
As daylight licks the crevasses of the bridge,
I light a cigarette
and think into you.