His croaky chin cuffs my collarbone,
Sibilating sweet sins that lick at my earlobes.
He buys a two-pack of berry Dutch cigarillos
To cradle a gram of numbing spinach, no stems.
Then tells me to smoke one and save the other
For later. Bet. He stains my tongue with brown
Booze– Peach Palm. Hennessy, Apple E&J;
Plasters color to my language– He never told me shit
About the yowling halos mounded in his fireplace.
If our relationship was ever going to fucking work
He should have addressed the dainty doves drifting
Through hell like dancing white flames when we first
Met. He did not tell me about his fiddled thermostat wiring
Or the exuding brick walls. I heard of his red fox pose
On eleven o’clock Sunday mornings at Miracle Temple:
One man trust-falls, grape juice, and dull crackers.
Why can I only see him when I look in the mirror?
He hoists the corners of my mouth, the lips of Judas.
The arch of his eyebrows sink like Tesco’s whipped
Cream sitting in his living room. He doesn’t mention
You as much as you mention him. Christians say you
Will fly in right on time to save us like the Air Rescue
Service. I can’t help but think that maybe your watch
Is broken. One of us is going to run out of time.
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