at which point time will cease

to exist and i can finally stop

complaining. there’s a fragile

world reflected in the glassy

pearl of your spit left

on my belly and i’m telling

you, i’ve never been so

old. the day sucks with leech-

teeth. even given the shreds

of your dead rind caked under

my fingernails there’s the black

chasm of want expanding

in my chest the way a bead

of ink breaks, making me difficult

to touch without an exit plan.

imagine, please, a better

continuum. you say earlier

doesn’t feel real and you’re right,

not because there was anything

exceptional about the heath

in early afternoon, not because

our chins sticky with cider

was a notable pip in this

quivering glitch of a life,

but because it was too ordinary

to even dare remember,

because we’ll someday ache

for any regular sunday in june

where the sun was a sure

thing and breath tasted like warm

grass and there was not a single

indication the cosmos would one

day shut like your eyes, tight

with pleasure.