Your Dearth

Only today, two years plus a pocket full of loose change, do I realize that it was in your dearth, that sooty crawlspace that I asked to examine, by offering you a mouthful of teeth, a train wreck of a kiss that left a cranberry blush to your shady smile. Hard and wet is how we left it.

You shut the door behind me, without ever a lie of how I would become accustomed to the stifle, dark was what I got, and you, you culled joy from a noise in the eaves.

When I had my fill, of the heat and bruises, loquacious for days when I would finger them, I lay silent, and you never even knock hard against the door, but pressed with your face to the sliver of light between out and the dusty floorboards recanting all in salt.


Address

The Comb Tree
42.316833,-72.656553
United States of America