at its best it is a glass over a candle,

blinkered, immediate. we are not past

or future, just anchored now, gripped

just tight enough to finger-paint lust

on bony shoulders, just a couple more

scratches to blame on the cat, our

wrists reddened by weekend revelry.

how stale it felt on a rainy wednesday

but still you had read online that it

helped, that it might make you feel

how you felt at first, that my face might

devolve, change back into the playful

prince that you had first spread your

legs for and i wish now that someone

had told me how wonderful it all was,

even when it felt like love was a bulb

i held in both hands, light escaping

from the cracks between my fingers.