lingering love

Drunken inhalations,
the press, the lack of rest;
right, right,
there, and
harder.

I think of you
being here as a prayer
someone made, nineteen years
ago, and one that got it
right. You're either a
miracle or one hell
of a fuck.

You like to
linger, like
you still don't
know the procedures
or where the door is.

I pretend
to be annoyed,
and you pretend
to be my boy, bringing
Chinese when you come over.

Alright, I get it;
the impersonation, the
personification, two animals
lunging at each other, all teeth,
claws, clashing; and then the
superimposition, pressing against
each other like two landscapes, filling
in the empty spots. You say: here is the
field of flowers, and I say: here is the moon.

You like to
call it love.
I don't know
what to call
it yet. But
don't stop.
We aren't
within
ourselves
anymore.