The moon sticks out
like a sore thumb,
a heavy-hammered
lunar bruise
no stranger
to rusty nail gun punches.
I am driving home
from carrot cake
and choked restaurant lights
thinking of how the pine floor
above your bedroom
never creaked below my heaviness.
The fuck-stained futon mattress
let my hips carve
their own memories
over ones already there,
a duet of grief.
I am now far
from his Friday night hands
and Saturday morning lips
on the blueprint of your body,
swallowing each other’s
sawdust laughter.
His timber voice
verbed through to the bone
frame of your house,
drilled into me
the infinity
of the word platonic
dangling
from your wrecking ball mouth,
I do not belong
in charge of my own heart.
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James Roach (they/he) lives in Philly and is most creative between the hours of up-too-late and is it even worth going to bed? To read some of his published works, visit his Linktree.