watercoloring in bed
trying to keep the blue from sinking
underneath my sheets

thighs speckled with the rust colored indication
that somehow i've been in this place before

cutting blood from my sleeves
& wondering why i so easily relate
to a framed butterfly

who cut blood from it's wings
before devouring the nail that pinned it.

you are anticipating a call from the mexicans
who taught you how to sling pale dreams
biting your knuckles white & wondering if they'll ask for the money or the goods

you have neither & i
a remote stirring inside my belly

that says this is not real
this is not happening
this is not what i wanted

in the beginning
when we both played with words

until we came
hot, sophisticated & fluttering
underneath sheets

not marred by some
delicate thing.