I said goodbye in a gaze thirty-seven degrees away from your eyes on my sockets;
In short words in short sentences:
“We’ll chill, it’ll be cool.”
(my hands dove in my pockets as if it were your cheekbones they were holding)
words full of curdled nectar, fermentation of old pumping blood.
You ironed on a smile that
Saw in my lips those vines you wound about my heart.
You still sparkled like our unfilled wine glasses,
still drew a tightrope between us,
and I grab one end away, wrap my fist three times, and flower-press your face on a kite.
Footfalls digging sockets into pockmarked sand, pockets,
tightrope string slicing red fortunes on my palm,
still running to catch up to your face in the clouds,
no matter how many sandy-grain pyramids behind.