shelf-life erotic

my real voice sits
on my chest at night

unlatches the windows
goes running

it’s me, I said, as if
that could explain anything
citrus and intimate

keeps intimating our late
and stillborn adolescence

you asked the empty lot
to decide our name for once

it said nothing and then some
while the night hemmed

and pounded blood and
blossomed what “us” was

so we asked for a bargain
something easy

and obvious as lust
tipped our heads

swallowed what we paid
for dust