i.

sweat-soaked sheets and a will that
makes hitler shake, i count
the hours One. one. two.
one—clocks in trauma
hands spasmshot forward and my mouth is runningRunning
running, a dirty faucet
caught in the swoop of you

a misplaced observation
enough to break my momentum—

ii.

a day's wage for an hour of laughter
now you won't even look at me the
only thing worth seeing is
your card between my fingers
crushed coral sprinkled on my spine
a hairline fracture hooked
onto the balcony.

iii.

if you spoke now, the clouds would burst
murderous light to the rhythm of my chest.