the soft, pink flesh
of the palms of my hands
reach for you through the thickness of the dark

in this city that never sleeps
in this night

in this bed
we lay our heads upon
in white-sheeted Astoria fashion
like a blanket of snow covering our most delicate parts

i hear the sound of your body aching
your deep, slow breaths

lulling

promising me
dreams of solitude

but still i cannot touch you.

nyc.

i love the rain
but mostly

when it stops.

another weekday.

tuesday

is the beginning
of knowledge that could be

                  the end
                  of giving
                  of breathing

life
into an ancient ghost
with her tiny breaths
and delicate

pink hands

                  the end
                  of a chance

at redemption.

swimming.

you can either rush
toward the cyan surface
with all of your strength
and take a gaping lovely
mouthful of air
and light
and life

or

you can hold yourself down
until your lungs feel
as though
they'll burst in their hollow cavity
forcing your mouth wide open
to relieve the burning pain in your chest
realizing that the water you let in
is going to drown you.

soon.

her hands suffocate god
turning his neck raw
and bruising eyes shades of blue
not that unlike my own.

sauna hot wind
flat slate sky

quiet house
torn cavity

empty.