Last summer we fought so long
you might think my scars were intrinsic stripes –
then again, I would not hesitate
to call us wild beasts
grappling blindly, foolishly
into the night.
It did not matter,
for the stars smiled smugly enough
as if to say, “We can't love you anymore,”
and I reached through the stratosphere to dip my fingers in the sweet soil of the moon
only to find it had soured under my breath.

Is this love?

I sat staring bitterly into dilated pupils
and dared you to run.
Take me by my teeth,
run back to our valley
where we sat under muddy skies and
translucent dragonfly wings
where you inked promises into my palm
until even when the rain washed away
the white lies
I still held three slivers of truth between
my thumb and forefinger.

Lead me back a thousand pages ago,
run back to our valley
where you could buy moonshine and fat cigars at the station not five miles south,
where we danced our soles bloody and screamed our voices shattered and phlegmy,
where the stars gaped like small children
and the moon dared show her face
and the sickly sweet scent of milkweed
hung in the sticky air,
almost as heavy as the fever that pulses through my veins,
but it cries thick, pearly tears.