The quail rain hits the glass and splits in half against
the windowpane while you're sprawled on the cloud
grey mattress, idly smoking a cigarette.
We are in a green room at the La Quinta
motel near a sunburned Texas highway.
We do this sometimes; drive away from our
respective hometowns and pretend we're
different people with movie type of stories.
Perhaps it's immature but for a few
bank-robbed moments, we are not
lying just to breathe easily.
You understand why my father might disown me
and extend a hand, saying, "Come here," very quietly
as if there's a secret in that whisper only I can detect
because we made it up together one wasted
September between rusted cars, long untamed grass
and my aqua scarf draped across your flesh.
I accept your invitation and sit on the bed,
despite the stress rolling off my toxic body.
"Someday we'll leave for real," you declare
and I think, "Will you still want me then?
When your fingertips have left shadows
on my stomach and our lips have forgotten
how to kiss without causing pain,
will you still want to touch me with
the same careless attraction as before?"
I hope so but what do I know
about what happens after love?
The piercings on your chest glow
in the fake sunflower light,
reflecting recklessness and
my jaded tongue, memorizing
your rock and roll midnight taste
in the event that this is the last farewell.