I saw through your disguises
back then, in the city,
as we stalked dark streets
in shoes too big for us to run in
in heels too small to make a sound;
All of my dreams are promises from another me
and I can see a different world in each one;
Our tongues were dry and lisping
and our throats were cut, and rasped with each word.
You drew poetry with your fingertips
on my bra line, tracing out the tatoos
you wanted on my body, capturing each syllable
on skin the color of pale milk tea.
I used to watch you in the early mornings
when sleep was hard to come by,
for the light had been climbing up the walls
and plotting its attack all day.
I crack your knuckles for you, bending each finger
in my palm and pressing down, as if spelling
out sign language for the dead,
as if a body’s sense of itself was fuzzy,
the reception infirm, signal weak.
I think this city will outlive the both of us
because we are blue eyes and hazel
and we can’t see clearly anymore.