This one wild eyed child,
with the breath like
those cedar branches between teeth,
those handfuls of eyes,
those broken whispers and spit on my eyelashes,
a kiss between a day broken like cigarettes in the package.
Could you make love to a series of words,
or a painting on the wall,
or maybe a laugh between dirty sheets where our skulls bounce off each other,
could you love a dead smile?