Quivering fingers flip through torn photographs
pressed between the sheet music of my flesh
stained with your kisses.
My bruised stomach
from that time you lay so close to me
the glissando of your fingers
burned my sides like hot coals:
Soundness-proved crimson flesh throbbing
while you played the keys of my heart
like a grand piano.
Call up the trumpets!
Call up the woodwinds!
Melodies at your fingertips.
Splintered ribs
from your thick mesh of words
that etched their serifed tails into my lungs:
Don’t eat that. You’ll get fat.
Taste of half-eaten honey
like tonguing a fruit knife.
Tongues on flesh.
Now blood-stained sheets.
You take a bow
My flesh is worn tight and cold
from your symphony of one
for one.
