cold water coming

You arrive scented with smoke and salt, that tingle of midnight walking, that sense of apparition suddenly alive with light. The clock does its walking, the hours stiff and sore. You mingle with the dust and shine, all halo and horn. Nothing works outside of your skin. Nothing is there but this hard lean into the turn of desire.

I am bleeding sentiment and appetite. I am seething with the insistence of matter and the tangle of hidden wires inside me. There are abysmal clingings and knots of Christmas lights behind my eyes. I see everything upside-down and twice. The heart does its part, thumping and yawning through these oceans of breath starved blood. The soul is a light left on in some flooded basement.

You are committed to memory, every bone and curve. You are committed to fantasy ever more. You are close to these unbearable moments that we learn to take in stride. Blood crimes and fighting words, your hips bare and shifting. I ignore the world in these lush moments, scattering my own ashes, denying each contingency. I am alone, and you arrive, sea salt and sweat and the vague threat of spring. I am alone, and you snuff out the last flame left.