baked//naked
i always sit
you always smoke
and talk about horizons
and damp grass in places
where we could be
waking up to foggy fields
the next morning if only
we actually went this time
but instead
dust-colored air
fills the streetlight-lit
spare room and again
it leaves your mouth
which is in fact
the same one that
likes to tell me i am beautiful
but
particularly when your hands
pin mine down
most likely the only time
i can recall
that you disclose this
and of course it is
in the dark where
there’s only waves of my hair
on your beige rug
shining off the same streetlight
that you say lights your white owls
and fills this room with green dreams
ones that are generally
what brings you back to me
after a month or so
of phone tag and
always a little irritation on my end
so i insist that we have to settle this
and by settle i never realize that
i must mean come full circle
because i have yet again
found us in a dark room filled with
the two scents that we all recognize
one filled with a lot of things
but mostly just a mix of sweat and passion
and the other a smooth and sweet scent
that at times provides a new perspective
though certainly not this time because
the two overwhelm my lungs and
tangle and leave me here
where
i sit
and you smoke
p.w.