damn baryshnikov

at most six hours have tangled in my hair
and though my memory is utter shit
i can still pinpoint the exact positions of:

my chair
your hipbone
the slant of sun that flecked your darkness
(you put a cullen to shame)

the swath of grass grudgingly green
before us and

inside me, the noose that hung taut,
choking blessedly the need to touch you
that made my hands shake–

and i smiled and i witted and i laughed
i screamed and i thrashed and i why did you leave me?’d

and then you left,
and life resumed.

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