then me

cellophane love like / ramen in cups, he bites the / left vein of my neck. that’s the verse. he bites openings in me like i'm chives in ramen. he bites openings in me like he's looking for veins. he turns and returns to me, lusting though cruel. chǎo fàn is cavey, caving in on itself. love is cavey, too. i'm dyed dark with him: the color of lemon rind, of loneliness, of cherry cigarette light. there's no verse here. "i'll think of you in every moon," he texts me. then, "i'm a jerk for my lust for you," then, "olive yeq"—he's drunk—then "abgel i s3nd you my lov. H3re you go, have it. Oim drunk, anf if u dont want my lovr ill hold it inside," then, "in high.hop3s of beauty i.hold 9n t9 our stroll thru heaven"

blue green never knots, / he tugs them loose in ounces. / love’s gooey like cuts. that’s the verse. i’m resting on the tub, knees to my chest. he’s got my wrist in his touch, then he’s loosening the blue green knots in my cut. “ouch,” i tell him. “baby,” he replies. he’s cutting them out, one then the next in turn. “ouch,” i repeat, crying little globs of tears, runny on my cheeks. my cheeks the color of the fresh lilacs on the counter, cut themselves by his knives, too

vigiling the night, / like tonic is grievy. he / left the voice note on. that's the verse. i vigil him in the night, knowing his tonic and his kettleone come up like it's nothing. i vigil him in the night, knowing things crush themselves like lungs. he left his voice note on to tell me the date. tuesday, bone broth, he's reciting grocery lists. bone broth, tofu, vinegar chips. i like him gone like this, reciting in the night. i touch his touch. i tie him to himself. i tell him to try to get loose

lettuce, grey lenses. / unnegotiated unlust / on the couch, him, him, that's the verse. i cling to him, cloves of garlic. the technology of us is white christmas lights, constellation eyes, veering vermeer. overlain on a vase, croceus and cloudy, is his brow next to mine. that's the verse. he's nori in my thrumming heart, he's the knot in my nepheshy neck. the crook of the throat, the hole in my lung. that's the verse, too

illy ill-lit him, / ventive, like god, he's crushing. / he's nuance in the night. that's the verse. he's nuance in the night, frosting on my cheek. he's lemon rind. he's charcoal. he's coke, he's nigiri. i'm bells on the feet, curls on the neck. there's no verse here. i write my name on his back with my gel nail. his voice is covered in the couch. i bite his teres. there's no verse here. i call other men his name

nude core, long hair core, / he tells me to quiet, then. / grey curls curl for him. klimt's nude with long hair is the heart, the core, of it. i'm leaning over, grey curls on my cheek, with him behind me, charcoal on vellum. in the closure of us this is nailed in the kitchen he left in. i tell him i can't remain quiet, then. "little longer," he tells me. "i need one of you in tart gummies." "gross," i tell him. "come here," he replies, grinning

gourmet garments, tin, / lentil colored thong. his kiss / feels like vinegar. that's the verse. on the third floor of the contemporary institute he touches my knuckle. close to my neck he tells me he knows this guy, the one that knits tapestries. then his camera is on our toes, in this reflective one, my lifty, naily heels next to his boots. it feels like a greeny labyrinth in here, though he knows the layout and the referents. he and i come to his canvas. it's me in the kitchen, with clementines, knives, oil. he tells me he loves me

le cou, his cheek, on / my chest. lemon curd frosting, / lilac green tapers. that’s the verse. the recipe for love is like this. leftover tofu in the kitchen, oil, vowels, the glitter of the come-off. in the valley of negev he left me, like god

the colors return / like covers in the long night. / "you look neon green." that's the verse. he tells me in his rough voice that i look green. my long hair is grey, though, in the unlight. "green?" he kisses me on the cheek, the neck. "greeny," his voice is on my throat. he touches the black tee, my tummy. my thigh. there's no consenting to love this color

little kyoto, then / nuzi, ricen, clove. he keeps / his cheek on my thigh. that's the verse. it's only him, crushy him. my levving heart feels like thousands of little things. his cheek is on my thigh. "like you like it," his voice is low

i'm tired, it's two in the morning. i tell him to take me home, but he voicelessly refuses. there's no verse here. he tells me to give me my lime. i give him my lime. he kisses my neck, then kisses me. "kiss me back," he tells me. i refuse. i'm tired. he grins and i take my lime, gel nails in his glass. "kiss me back," he repeats. i kiss him grossly, tonguely. he loves it though