Get out of my head, Goddammit.
It is nearly 5 in the morning
and I am reaching for a book
to claw out slivers of your voice
from the back of my mind.
My fingers tremble.
I am not yet ready for you
to take me someplace else rather
than the bubble I had built
to surround myself against
men like you who smell of
chocolate and sunset breeze.
My eyes close.
I am drunk again with dreams
of a thousand 5 AMs spent
watching the dawn creep slowly
above silhouettes of apartments
and rushing laborers – our thermos
filled to the brim with coffee.
You, capturing the pink sunshine
and on the valley of your spine,
crook of your neck, warmth of
your lips I burn with my poetry.
I drop my book.
I am high again on the promise of
your name, your attention, your
dreams and fears
-your whole existence.
This is unhealthy. My darling, I
am dizzy with so much wanting
that I am left with nothing but
daydreams of a thousand 5 AMs
spent unraveling threads of
who we used to be. Stitching
and unstitching in the early
morning hours when we’re
supposed to be asleep respectively
breathing into each other’s warmth
My breathing slows.
You have made ashes of my lungs,
my dear. I don’t think I can
forgive you for making cigarette
smoke off my hair and eyelids. Don’t
think I can let you let me
weave a handful of 5 AMs
before sleep finally overtakes me.
But I always do.
And while my pillows catch fire
to my nightmares, you are
both honey and whiskey
to my 5 AM delusions.