Each year now
looks like this room we have deserted,
a room the size of a bed
bathed in red light as an unborn
or, more decently- a brothel,
red enough to oulive us.
Days pile up,
these forevers we have dismissed,
barely breath-prints on windows,
all going down to smithereens
all going down to die in its heat.
I sleep there with your heart
chained to my ankle,
and the note that shaped your mouth
when orgasms eclipsed bruises.
There is no other place to breathe,
no other place to strip bare.
The cracks in the walls still own
my purest yes, my blackest no,
and the only answer is your touch,
the only cure to death is sex.
Whatever we hid there is alive,
everything is sound – Your absence
is the loudest fraud in the world.
Time, in this room, collapse
it is ruin, it is scree,
but your undying grip,
it is music inside my wrists.

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