Nina (2)Charles Jensen
To be clean is too easy: letting the danger in, drinking the tire smoke for the rip it carves in your throat— that's love. To go there, every day, knowing full stop you will be broken just a little more, a little more dirt smudged outside the lips, the blood baking slightly hotter in its cast-iron vein: I was never found by a lover. They only complicate the game, place the safety zone a little deeper in the skin, and the chase of dandelions gone to seed is the guess: when will she make landfall? Who warms the breeze? And when she shoots up, which of the stars will be first to nip the desperate bulge of her calves shaking off something prehistoric? That sinking feeling in the gut. The dirty disappointment my lover wears to find me, wasted, the flutter of my eyelids kissing junk and sending their irises to another field. And the last kiss— the lipsmack that always breaks us apart.
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