I am suddenly very aware of the fact
that the fact of anything happening
that might make you sad
makes me want to do something,
like burn entire cities down, wipe the memories of millions, colonize new planets, carve new worlds out of ice or stone, make a place where you aren’t ever aching with that deep, bad ache of real awful news, that deep, bad ache that we both know. I want to make you bleed from a thousand little cuts so that nothing can ever gouge you, nothing can punch through all the way to bone.
Or everything can stay fucked up and terrible, but please let me hold you.
I want to lick each other’s wounds a while.
Climb into a bed like a treehouse, fortify these bodies that we so like to bruise, these hearts we batter worse. Drag our animal saliva on the knee scrapes of our egos until we’re ready, for more devastating glances unexpectedly lashing us, more butterfly bandages over cuts the size of hours.
I want to learn new songs from the bees buzzing in your chest, show you how I take apart my bones to keep them from breaking when I travel or when I sit too still. The ringing in my ears could be retuned. You could hold my hand while I am sleeping. We could shimmy down to earth, and whoever has the broken foot that day can lean.