(four days left)

i climb out of you as if plucking myself out of a poem.
hanging like laundry, i thank you for each and every erection, sincerely
and you
moving around there
on the bed and saying

i love you
i love you
i love you...

makes me soft and affectionate, illiterate; yet,
still- do they flow out of your grimy mouth to
prove a point and since
when is it
a point,
proven?

i begin to feel condensed, like a sturdy poet
thati may attempt to mimic,
parrots and crickets echoing
death and our handcrafted names.

i make this sound like a good thing, but it's not
and when i say condensed i mean
like toddlers milk, as if
my skin is a
sheath of rubber a sleeve of latex that you
delight in taking
off.

the purpose of this is to resemble and re-assemble your apathetic nonsense.
my poetic conceit is getting tired, exhausted
of pointing to the curve of your shoulders in
this roundabout way.

i do not know
anything, or
where
i am going
and if
i could possibly allow myself to
take you along on my trip to fucking nowhere.