markbousfield

So we sat,
all footy and wrestly,
so nestly and beastly,
unfeasibly penitent and cowardly.
won't you sleep with this version of me?

More burned than you'll ever know,
the cache of towelling catching
your blood dripping onto our lonesome baby toes.

greeny pinky fingers linger,
webbed and abreast of the sour churn of hops left to stew in the kitchen.
they linger on the very temptation of your sex,
a ghost I know well,

with so little to tell you and so much time
what can I say to fill these moments with anything other than lies?
I tried to find the mask that would disguise the Yossarian in me
now that you are somebody else's wife,
I tried to find a cloak to darken my presence in the room
now that you no longer place your fingers between mine.

I could not.