Our first kiss tasted like bad days, and so did our last:
we are moon flowers. We bloom when the sky becomes a
big tentacle, my lips strawberry pillows speckled
by dead flakes red skin you chapped with your tongue.
Everyone is in bed and we are in each other,
everyone is awake and we are swallowing more pills.
We walk, we blink, but we just think, think, think
of whatever dream we had last night when it all wore off
our lovely bones sounding like mouths bleeding love
or your train arriving at a station of sunflowers.
