I've grown to know you
to need you
like a reigned-in blurred line
shaped in clay and fired in kilns
afraid more than most, of chasing you away.

'call me. I just need you issall.'

Nightchurch choir of wreckless closet love,
piles of scented skins
worn not as trophies but as friends

Wyrmwood;
life as an absinthian lover is hard as I pen your address
(the apartments everywhere that we slept in one another)
this, the lead-to-gold conversion folds
a mouse into a man
trying on temporality
tempered by the impossible wanderlust
of trying to love everything
trying to hold onto sand, slipping between my fingertips
measured in seconds, miles apart.