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rose-clouds lead me to you,
your white pear breath
sweeping over my skin,
your american spirit stained
lips, your lexington soul
marred with new york city—
its smoke and its loss.
I think of your pale hands
touching my waist on the second flood balcony,
a cigarette between my teeth,
my red red neck
marked up with you.

we kissed in a champagne haze,
my summer green skirt
scrunched on the cobblestones,
the purity of my white linen
slashed with black dirt-lines.
we rode back to my father
and his lackluster truth
on the first b train we could find,
your head pressing to my stomach—
all life was a fever dream,
mighty and illuminated with neon signs
and hot breath in January nights.
you broke it, my 104 degrees,
your body almost touching mine
in that punk rock paradise with Styrofoam walls.