You are boxes of donuts and new drug habits.
I am looking for warmth
in the hole-worn fabric of your
words. I saw your heart and didn’t need a microscope. It was blue, like
they taught us in sixth-grade anatomy. The color changed the pace of the room.
Do you need oxygen?
You would never guess that organ belonged to someone
with a sugar-toothed smile as hungry as yours.
I’ve never been this drunk and
all I want is your morning between my teeth and inside my lungs. Donuts after.
You talk about writing love songs for a girl who broke your heart.
I heard you sing at one of our 1 a.m.’s.
I wear the memory beneath my shirt.
It doesn’t keep me warm like it used to.