—what do you want?
i taste like white wine,
we are fat and lean meat.
when i kissed you, i was at once in a fallow
field. there was salt on the earth. they don’t
come there anymore.

—would you forgive me if i excused myself?
i’ve stepped out already,
the room seems to have closed around us like
a wound. it reeks of pus.
there is lipstick on your thigh
which i did not put there.
you seem unhappy.

—how do you think that’s ok?
but you don’t think, you don’t think!
you dream and you dream larger than me, so
large, it steals the oxygen. i might have wilted.
there were stars in my eyes,
at the corners, before my lips
began to blue.

—when would you call again?
i have been out,
my boots are packed with snow.
my teeth chatter and chew on raw words i
don’t know how to cook. a fly has moved in.
we go to a nepalese place,
i wrongly order fish.

—what do you want?
soft pinks paint you in the morning.
the wine bitters,
the love sours.
naked and more naked into the memories. into
those empty fields where we once saw
poppies. we bloomed into each other.

—don’t you care?
i remove my chattering teeth and place them
on a bedside table. the framed photo faces
down. i measured you out in sun rises.
the matins are ringing
a funeral song.

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