the first handful of dirt on the grave
was yours. the mud sliding satisfactorily through
your sweating palms and in between the little
space between those familiar fingers.
and the second handful was mine.
dry and grey from the heat in my heart,
burning a love to ash in the seconds it took to breathe.
we've got a way of showing our electrocution,
static between rough cotton as my stomach
presses persistently into yours,
pulling back so you can realize
how close how close how close
walking from the tomb our past is dead and buried:
but still, all i remember is your full lips
moist and cracked on my forehead.
you sticky little boy,
sweating in how much you want to be a man,
breaking me down into kisses.
and you stare at me and as ingenuous as i wish i was,
you see the old woman in my eyes
and you know i'm homeless.
buy love with me and it'll
like i always knew could happen because we're
so close so close so close