'I know you,' I say,
'identical poisons swim in our mouths;
they drive whomever wins our baneful affection
to fainting, and
winter is a benediction
because the weariness we project
and he thinks
her tongue is everything he's been—
a salty ocean wave
that his lungs just can't breathe in.
his saliva is drying, growing coarse,
but he'll be better in the morning
(no use ending this kiss
just for his well-being.)
and I say,
'through this list of metaphors
if I must be a vain current of
flooding diluted powder,
know that the dimples in the sand
remind me vaguely of your smile.'
and he says,
'I think we're both gonna die.'
I'm so scared of people who are like me.