The Density of Glass

Memory. Humor. Petulant providers of the ghosts. Deliberate as the toil of the quiet searching my veins. Gears unwrenched in a spectrum of impotent rages. As futile as all things are afterwards.

In the chimney of his lungs as the grunting progresses toward an inevitable end. There is no fire. Only the leftover smoke. There is no such thing as intimacy. Only stabbing. Harder and harder at the hole in me he cannot fill. Blind haystacks flaunting needles that no longer exist.

Not what I lack. Nor what is still mine. But what I wanted that they could give. The weighted gaze of careless eyes as they examine the temporary shelters under my skin. The crisp jerk of nirvana in that moment where the mind pauses to let the pleasure consume itself.

The bitten nails in our throats as we tried to swallow.

No more words. Or lovers.

Just the rattle of the empty bed. The density of broken glass filling out those wounds.