Here we are again: covered in glass,
blood stained blacktop. This makes
sense. The constant collision of us.
In bones, mouths, skin. We are
always pulling in opposite directions
but wind up in the same bed. You can
call this chemistry, or even symmetry,
but we never quite know what it is
exactly we’re trying to mimic. All I
know is that I can’t keep pulling glass
out of my palm. Every time you try to
hold my hand, it gets lodged in deeper.
You’re so deep under my skin at this
point that I don’t think I’ll ever get you
all the way out. I don’t know that I’d ever
call this love, but I don’t know a better
word for this kind of orbit. Some days I
think I forget how to breathe until you say
my name. Here we are again: glass in my
hair, blood on your hands. I’ll still get back
up and brush off my knees. You’ll get back
in the car and find your sunset. We’ll meet
up and do it all over again tomorrow night.