of men who knew they’d eventually confess
to your drinking between greedy lips that nibbled
mine red, gently, as my tongue tasted the sharpness
of your teeth. This was more than wanting your breath
to take mine all the way away, collapsing both lungs
like oranges squeezed into juice. My not knowing how
to climb cleanly into the space where young skin sticks
to vinyl covered cushions became a shot across the bow
as we pretended the overly salivated meshing of mouths
on metal was a sensual thing, though leading to lips chapped
dry as the tailpipe fumes the night you taught me everything.
There exists no metaphor hungry enough to overcome
the softness of cliché or the sentimentality of school girls
grown to love the sound of moon rhymes in their freshly pierced
ears – the core of where I heard your smooth lines float like spooks
from early innocence to deepest regrets to near silent echoes
that I later learned may never turn silent at all.
Yes, later learned.
My hair no longer falls easily over my shoulders, warm
as any confession of what really happened that night in that space.
Confession is such a dirty word –
dirty as never letting any other love help me forget.
(To learn more about "The Allness of Everything," click here.)