Rot.

And when the sun breathes,
I can find you laughing
under the windcaught trees
with your throat sacrificed
to the burnt blood leaves.

Oh, you are always beautiful
even when your words are stale,
honey moon cuts on your wrists,
and you won't look at me
with my palms pressed to your eager salt cheeks.

You were the water in my lungs
and the iceberg on my tongue
and the bacon on my burger.

I wanted you to sing me songs
and I didn't care if you wrote them
for me or for her;
I didn't even care if they weren't yours.

The summer was halfway over
and I was still halfway in love
and your halfway smile kept me around.

Here are my exhausted confessions
to wither in the graveyard of grey secrets
with rain inside my abandoned elbows:

I want your dark damaged eyes still.