There’s too much of you here.

When the sun hits just right—just
enough to highlight the lack of you.
And it’s not that I want you.
No, no. It’s that you’re here
even though you’re not.
That I can’t seem to smudge
out that last bit. Your clavicles
and your capillaries.
The marrow of you.

The flushed feel of your name.



The night we lay on the porch,
the day’s heat still stuck
to our skin, two silhouettes tracing
each other in the lamplight.

How the air hummed around
us as you kissed my thighs
quiet and I looked up to Orion—

searching for what holds him
together, wondering how long
before even he falls


Moisture moves
down my back as I lie
in the dark with strands
of shower-wet hair
stuck to the base
of my neck.

As my eyes leave the ceiling,
I think to move, wondering
if my legs will hold me
like they always do,
or, if this time, I’ll
stand up and dissolve—
a moth too close
to the light.


Moments that arch inward,
imprinting themselves,  
refusing to let go,

the way your skin felt
that morning we lay in bed
until noon, eyes coated in sleep,
your limbs tangled in mine, me
mapping your skin to the smell
of jasmine at dusk.

And I’m back with you now, trying
to hold onto the way
the light bends.


But why does it matter—
what I call you, what you call me?
When your calloused hands have
already christened me, down
to the divots of my clavicles.

When we already lie together
in bed, my leg yoked to yours,
your fingers drumming
on my ribcage, my mouth
malleable to you, a mess
of nerve endings, and     imprints
of your touch.

When really, there is no word
for the feel of your lips on
the curve of my spine.