Peach Pits

He wants to do a line of cocaine off of my bare chest,

The buttons on my shirt torn to my sides,

A fiver rolled between his fingers, rimming his teardrop nostril.

And then he'll have his boy sit on his lap.

Towards him, so that I can see his eyes as he flies through his narcotic high.

Flashing the same nostril fives to all the other boys that he could have,

With a Marlboro red lit between his teeth,

That he passes to his fingers, between his words.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

Smoke falls past his lips like a gate,

Flowing down his sculpted jaw and then back up, to the atmosphere.

-

And he kisses on my skin.

Lucid. Transparent.

Burning a hole where his lips land.

He can see right through me like a dagger, tight above my ribs.

-

But no one is watching now,

And the lights are long gone,

His eyes are dark.His words are soft.

His words are slurred.

He wants me to go, far away from him,

Because he doesn't want to hurt

Me. he says.

-

His life is made of intervals,

In which we lay, side by side,

Crossed out in his sight.

But morning sun will break through his haze,

Lost after his narcotic high,

He lies.

And I'm still by his side.

-

His lips are soft.

Peach pits and pink.

With a stubbled chin.

I'll say beard,

And he'll say scruff.