my body's all juiced up on whiskey and you,
you are across the city and there are no hands on the curve of your back
there is no language circling the fine hairs at the nape of your neck
your eyes are not on me.
my face is all torn up and I'm pulling at scars on the backs of my hands
hardening each day callouses are unavoidable
like children wandering aimlessly on streetcars
and coffee buzz paranoia in the foggy streets
empty like me.
we are lazy ecstatic together.
your body is so familiar under my mouth
that it becomes strange in frequency,
like a word swilling around at the back of my throat
becomes foreign when you realize these parts randomly collide,
when you realize [noun] can't curl into [verb] like Whitman's do.

I cannot suck I suck

that's where you are rooted in me,
dug in the back of my skull, warm and
perpetually wet.