My love is a needle
attaching us at the vein with twine.
It hurt, sewed relentlessly,
blood passing between us like we were saving each other
from loneliness, from stagnancy,
from bleeding out through our pores–
Not the first time I saw you,
nor the eighth,
but somewhere around the thousandth,
after years of acquaintance
it dragged me over by the crease of the elbow
so it could dive below the waves of your skin
until we stood close, just so.
Now chest to chest,
red stars fall into nebulae at our feet,
dripping off warm laundry
stretched between our ribs;
more like stalactites hanging off clothes lines
in a cave with two walls,
framing our little hallway of the universe.
Sentient and afraid of heights,
they’re always reaching for the galaxy
nestled in the tiny faults in the tile,
their forked tongues brushing the ground
to lick up a star so another
hot-blooded young thing
can slide off their scales
and live for a millennia in their long shadow.
Before I lost feeling in my limbs,
I used to pluck at the lines like a pick
so they sang for us,
but you always stilled my hand.
The song hurt your ears,
the twine grated against the soft meat of your lungs
even as I tasted the scratch of it echo in my back.
But now we are utterly still, a pillar breathing
through open windows a constant stream of humid air.
Before I lost the strength to see, I saw you watching
the curve of my brow,
stiffened fingers twitching up from our sides
toward the needle stitching away at our throat.