PEARS TASTE LIKE YOU
we are in the kitchen together
and you ask if I would marry you.
I cough up the piece of pear in my throat
and ask you to clarify.
put qualifications before.
“I mean, not now, maybe, one day…”
the pear slides back down,
“not now…not now.”
but kiss you with fruit on my lips
and I know
but that sounds like maybe tomorrow.
I say it when I can’t sleep,
I still can’t eat pears
without seeing our almost forevers.
our not nows.
our maybe tomorrows.
everyone keeps claiming my space,
dividing up my parts
dicing me into neatly picked quarters,
pieces to give away.
auction off my heart.
give a stranger my legs.
they tell me to stop running,
I won’t need them anymore.
but I can hear the ravens crowing in the distance
telling me to get out,
get out while I can.
get out before I’m all gone.
they offer me their wings,
tell me to never look back.
just get out.
WE FUCK LIKE THE WORLD IS ENDING TOMORROW
we’ve never known how to go slow,
our first date was an Earthquake
and I think I’ve never fully recovered.
every look was an aftershock,
every touch was the Big One,
the “there’s no way we’ll make it out alive.”
I saw a photo of you,
with dark circles caressing skin
I used to sweat against.
I wonder if we didn’t make it out alive.
I wonder if we both died.