I Scribbled a Thank You Note in the Coffee Ring on My Fast Food Napkin After I Left Your Place and You Called Asking if I Would Come Back

You smell like the dusty ring of light wreathing

the moon on warm nights, and I forget about the yellow

smell of my Grandmother’s coffin. And I forget that

people hide rotting lies under their gums

as your tongue kisses my teeth, licking them clean.

I tell you it feels good, and that I like the way you pull

the corners of my mouth up without cracking my lips.

 

Your sheets wrinkle into butterfly wings under my

back, and as you sleep, the heat of your silver breath

blooms in my ear like a lullaby. When I push my fingertips

out to dip them in the night, the darkness waves back

and I do not mind that I don’t know why.

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