1.20.17
JACK-LIEN
i couldn’t smell you behind ourr smoke
we taste like, crowd dancers and blue moons.
shark,
it’s not often i feel the rug slip from my feet.
talk about flames under our seats
youve sparked more than an interest

fracture within your cheekbones
close enough to something i
we have known before
there are traces of memories where your jawline meets
mine
i could trace my finger across
every last rib
of spine
the kind of shock that makes you read the same line twice
the kind of shock that makes you read the same line twice
we could make this entire building
shake
collapse with our moans.

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