Your mouth is an arid hole
and there was a chance
I could die.

That was good
for past time comfort
until the ocean ate the moon.

Moon sinks to home—
bottom bunk of sea; stinks of pink,
and reeks of barren skin.

You were foretelling future
in the future with your nails wanting
out.

Old is off new
and into sand.

You were eight feet below water
breathing in rust. I was an oxygen tank
waiting for you.

I breathed into your ears
some things mouths will never say
and we're made new.