I’m wearing skeleton skin again, while you’re drinking lined-up Kamikazes at a bar, wearing no bra, no napkin or straw. There’s an intern looking sharp, sleek and suited Italian-grey. That boy has a horse (.…) for a tongue, but still, I’d kiss you, if I could.
Your mother, she’s almost my mother, worries I’m too skimpy and sallow, though she says it “Swallow” like I’m a bird endangered. Makes me laugh, makes me want to ask about you and that new arrangement, his dark slick / d(…) and coiled pubic hair.
Even so, I’d kiss you, if I could.
Most nights, I see you in a lagoon, afloat like a listing planet or broke-off piece of glacier ice, your breath all muddy mist and frothy grey, gross but kind of naughty, and hell yeah, I’d kiss you then, if I could.
You don’t know it, but you’re beautiful inside out, ring-around-the-collar or rosy, juxtaposed or reposed, a recurrent orbit, even when you’re hideous or being brutal. You could throw up in the sea, you could throw up on me, and I’d still kiss you, if I could.
Those twins we never had, they sometimes show up unannounced, creepy in the hall closet, like a nervous cause that doesn’t know where to protest. They ask me their name and future, claiming I’m the culprit, and still, I’d kiss you, if I could.
If I was bones or ash, lame or too distracted, rich and not bothered at all, I’d let it all fall away, watch it burn, but what I’d want most, is to kiss you, if I could.
And I know I’m in trouble, seeing / drinking double, second-guessing every disguise. But you should know I love you more than I love myself, or anything at all, and what I want most before I die, is to kiss you, if I can.
I’m dangling on the soft slope of your neck, hope on one side, fear on the other, wondering when you’ll notice.
I erase myself bit by bit, day by day, but can’t get the job done entirely, which is why I’m now dangling from the soft slope of your neck, hope on one side, fear on the other, hoping you’ll notice.