you asked, tenderly. bruising my neck raw with your hot breath.
the last time we were this close—you made art on my back,
coarse coats of Maybelline over the surgical sketch you scratched into my spine.
_
eyelids courting death, only your frustrated breath can Eurydice me.
I dream I am last in line to marry Him, and at my turn He asks,
does it end?…
_
my lips curl in an answer but your tongue disagrees: breath wasted.
promising to last is the first speech of tonight, and the only
end in sight is the one you’ll take me to.
_
the answer, then, is no.
_