And then you are drinking wine from a shot glass
Remembering afternoons and cleaning blood stains
From the comforter. Soap, water, a little effort,
Sips of the buttery alcohol, thinking, here I am.

I am just finishing off a poem, putting the final touches
On each turn of phrase. You are sitting at the end
Of a black couch, your hair splayed around you,
Your small fingers on the shot glass now, half full.

There is space between us. Love and friendship,
But pain comes easily too, edging in underneath
our fingernails, cutting open our skin, leaving
little marks, like the tracks of a frightened animal.

So what if too many times we have been here, both
Lost in our machinations. So what, if we have found
Small comfort in the heave of bodies, the scent
Of arousal, the skein of desire that nets us too well.

And so what if now, when the sun is lower, the blood
That remains has dried again in vagrant scars, and you
Are sitting there, tired but reawakened, your eyes like
Brilliant marbles, captured in a game of chance.

We pass through these days like this, one desire leading
To another, one pain assuaged, another created. Still I think
I could be better. Still you think it could be different. But
When the wine is gone, our veils are lifted, we realize.

Little more than this. Little more than a dark and wanton link
Between two humans, caught in the passage of time.
The wine burns our stomachs and we are shaking.
I notice a scar on you I have not seen before. You turn.

And look at me, as if I am some intriguing specimen. As if
I had insect wings, or eyes glinting with multiple reflections.
What I truly am is unknown. Sometimes taking your hair
In my hands, I feel raw, and animal. Other times I float.

And other times I fall. Here between us, these machinations,
These deeper ghosts, these animals are all allowed to live.
There is no other way, for you, for me. I am too much in
This world, its passions. And so are you, for now.

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