A half dozen pairs of pinned-up dimples
plotted graceful retreat,
squandered every hoarded ounce
of resolve. From ear to ear
I drifted until
I finally left griping behind,
accustomed to the sudden slackness
of muscle no longer braced
with interest. Instead I obsessed silently
as a plant might fixate on water.
As a cadaver might long
for the grave.
The grave; as if crushes can kill--
as if this preamble to love
was the whole bloody constitution.
But my eyes lock with hers,
perched immobile on my desk,
and reality jars aside;
the vibration of my cell
could be a carnival corpse,
sunken eyes and loose-leaf flesh
mixing hot blood and cold sweat.
The hours are teeth,
dropping from a rotted jaw;
the days are eyes fully sunk,
staring from a gaping maw
and four days later
she grimaces mid-embrace
and swears she catches
the scent of a dead thing.