Bed of the white pickup truck
He wishes he could breathe fire,
he wishes he could kill me with possessive distance

he wants to play with me
dirty fingers crawling up the bruises on my leg

he chews broken glass like tobacco
his resolutions unfinished, his boots
marking an unending howl

he kisses my fingertips but his actions
are meaningless while I flee from the bed
of the white pickup truck where you drive
by and my heart plummets, a airplane
scraping down my ribcage

he dreams about New Jersey, more
an idea than a distance, or a action, or a
admiration,

He is soft in that dead-glow
pushing himself into me trying to relive
the harsh boil with pressure and pretense

He peels me away from myself,
I saw all the signs – a song on the loud
radio, the curve of your neck while you
look away from me and watch the television

disengaged, the car dead on the side of the
road,

if time were a distance I would
run across the world, unburden myself
with the vacant look in your eyes
boring into me,

I have let a cowardice thief into my bridal bed,
sweet edifice,

I am left with only the precipice
before me, and the realization that I must jump.