Your hand in the air


I had a photo of your hand in the air
but I burned it with all of your shit.
I don't know what I planned, but this isn't it.
I wasn't supposed to feel like this,
but somehow you got stuck in my heart
and left a mark and the scars won't heal.

Fuck you.

I'm thirsty for that touch
that went inside my sides in that old love affair.
It wasn't much, but I cried and cried
when that wolf snuck out to the cold field
into the dark stare of florescent meals and muck.
My blood drips from his lips.

Red mud fungus.

I want your smart mouth near me
on me or you could lick my heart's wound clean,
free me from the tyranny of this infatuation
into some caffeine dream of decay where your hand snakes
out to me and I shake with anticipation and see
that my debris of doubt doesn't lead you away

because I want what could have been.