would you tie

my cranberry lips

(they taste like juice)

with cardboard box

twine?

andpull me

towards you in a

a rush of oxygen

and Allen Ginsberg

screaming
Howl in our ears

, (but there is no wind).

my nail polish is

labeled, in gold times new roman,

cherries in the snow

(I christened it

the blood on your shirt)

and prayed that it might

fool you into thinking

I had lipstick on

sometimes logic has no continuous

thread of thought

because make-up makes me

(b)older.

he typed love.love.love

and blinking, I tried to consider

the angles of his profile

forming negative spaces (like vases)

with mine, but I

could only think of you.