42.84, -106.31 (we would have made better lovers.)

you can drive this time, darling
to the western end of insurrection,
curved tongues tracing scars on fingers:
embraced, and you are not worth
the cheap metaphors I could make you into.

real people don't make sounds when they are torn apart,
fell-weather, worse-worn; skin like chain-link,
an eddy in this brevity and meter, written-into:

the colored lines disintegrate into those platinum bands,
not another way for us to be together, separate, initiate -
like the nights that feel so warm without you,
the things you changed forever with that hand,

a drug along those lips of yours,
a couple of words away from becoming nothing
but the spark that lit those cigarettes
we'd never smoke.