a boy, my boy

he has
shoulder blades
that threaten flight.
i put my hands on his back
and hold him down, and he
murmurs something i don't hear.

(this is how we exist,
a series of things that mismatch
but create one hell of a bang when
lit. we're flammable, and we're
destroying one another, and
that's what we love most.)

when he kisses,
his tongue slips through my lips
and i think of it as a probe. (what
would you like me to do? make it fast
or make it painful? if i had to make the
decision for you, i'd say you'd want your
every muscle stripped away slowly. you
like a pain that you can see.)

he scratched up
my back, like a monster
was trying to get out of him,
or perhaps he was trying to get
the monster out of me. i used to
ask, but now we barely share a
cigarette at the end of our rendezvous.

(he says, 'i'm not gay,'
and i say that i know, because
it's what he needs to hear, what
i need to hear. we fit into a spacesuit,
but it doesn't mean we're going to waltz
off into space. there's nothing better
to do, of course, but we'll make up
excuses.)

the bed smells like
a sweaty hell. he'll leave
and i'll wash the sheets in a day or
two, when i stop tying my stomach
into knots.

his shoulder blades
threaten flight. and
he has collarbones which
look like they could support
wings. he, however, is afraid
of heights. he, however, doesn't
want to admit the possibilities.

(i'm not gay. i don't love you.
this means nothing. i know.)