sunset park. (10.4.17)

I have all these hours I hardly remember.

as if the minute it permeates through my body,

the liquid warmth sinking in to my satisfaction -

my memory dissipates,

coagulates,

birthing an entity that I don't know to be my own.

but it is mine, taking up this home, driving the uncontrollable fingertips, these ever expanding ribs,

spewing nonsense on autopilot,

falling asleep next to another body once the sun comes up again.

two hours

maybe

three,

throw the sheets off,

leave.

instinctual decisions.

sometimes they slip into evenings,

tucked away into the words, the haze of smoke and the limbs of lead,

and disappear

or slip into his hair,

leave its aroma on your skin the next day

until the warm water dances off your face

and the soap washes it all down the drain.

but the gaze of others,

the singe that is knowing what part of you is not for them to hold,

cannot melt

in the cold of recluse,

in the nights of gratification

having departed

and gone away for good.