I want words.
This way, I just bleed through.
There has only been
one conversation,
vein split at fifteen,
our aortas twinned.
Your finger waist wastes in me,
a wraith consumed,
my jaw blown by every flailing limb.
The hunger in your hands
crusts to my bones as barnacles to rock,
as lichens crust to spongy bark
and calcify.
Evenly we'll distribute saltines to geese,
shredded lettuce to the warring gulls.
The rest I rest with you.
We pour, drowsy,
into muddled blankets on the floor
and crack joints, join pelvises,
our bowls of noodles growing chill.
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