In bed next to him,
your arm follows the swell of your hip
and your hand hugs your thigh;
you've never felt so alone,
or so beautiful.
His closed eyes have mapped
even the ghost towns of your skin;
every time you slipped off your shirt
you wished you could outline your contours
with a dirty brush, darken your creases.
Hot breath shivers on your neck
as you leave him for the last time,
corkboard walls still rattling in your ears,
his father's shouts like accelerant
aching for a match.
Now your ribs pant, tired from caging
your heart puckered lips
kissing the same depression below his ear,
lungs lolling dead in your mouth.
The broken air conditioner whirs,
stale air pumping through tired rubber tubing
trapped beneath your skin and bleached fine hair,
saving scraps of shallow breath.
You forget his name,
drag his limbs through your fingernails catching
on the deck's laughing splinters.
You forget his details,
dirt smeared in the crevice of his hip;
sun casting shadows on his eyes
so you never really see him in daylight.
You forget the first time his father
coughed words into gasoline,
dripped it down his son's frog throat,
stretching it to burst,
a rope of spit still clinging to his lip
like a lonely man.
The sun slips overhead and behind you
until your bones are cold,
your last vertebrae where your mother says
your shirt should touch your jeans
quivering, warm like his hand never left.