Day 8

I didn’t want to get out of bed this morning,

the light smelled like summertime

and your touch tasted like cardio.

I wanted to lay there in a tight clutch all morning

so neither of us could mourn the impossibility of the other.

I didn’t feel like holding back and dropping the pieces

of air that came out of your windpipe,

so I caught them and held on,

anticipation too ripe like those

papayas in my fridge.

I don’t really like eating fruit off of the core.

There is something preferential in a delicate

slice, a fine chunk.

You aren’t the kind of guy to cut up an apple for me.

But you are the kind of man to admit

that you wished you still believed in angels.

You and I know it would be harder if you were staying.

This expiry date limits us,

thankfully.