in bed, i chew my fingernails and
spit half moon slivers onto the carpet
you pace the room
not like some caged beast
or flightless bird but
very much like a man empty
handed, reduced to frantic
flapping
it's midnight going on
the morning after and we're still here
you with your low anthem moaning
and me with my fingers bloody-tipped
and raw
i ask if you want to fuck
because we're bored, and the room is
too small
you respond uncapping
perfume bottles, setting them on
the edge of the dresser
and praying for a quake
my legs spread
your hands shaking and we are all
rough and open wounds
pouring salt into each other
never licking clean
