it’s you, the world in our palms surrounded by various pieces
of all the times you’ve sobbed over your exes and translated
the teardrops into paintings.
in your attic this is where i sit best, in the lakes of your kiss.
i’m in your studio and you’re taking my clothes off
and i’m done with caring about the necessary love that gives me wings.
maybe we can paint together after this
or just lick the moon dry, some metaphor between our lips could come to life
we are redecorating our wounds as we fuck
and the planks under us are trembling confused
because neither you nor i could’ve anticipated this sunday lunchtime
i’d be laid waste to your wanting of me
so instead of bonding i just pull on my clothes and say “this was fun”
and leave you and your canvases empty.
it was fun. but i’m going home now.