Inventory

We are a collection of spare parts

jangling around

in an old SUV.

Our bellies are full of Sour Patch Kids

and Red Bull, our fingers

sticky with sweat

and growing restless.

The night time is greasy

when we stop to sit

in the trick spot

(we think we see everyone

and no one sees us)

and the only thing cutting through it

is the vodka and peach juice

trickling down my neck.

I never meant to be

so tangled with you.

Limbs becoming ambiguous

and vowels

rudimentary.

People who do not love each other

read lips.

But I wrote the words

you haven’t said yet.

And you have designed the maps

that guide my fingers along

your collarbone

and through your buttons.

Wherever there was sweetness,

it has taken refuge in the ether.

I am in your veins,

the first thing, you ever shot up

in the dark.

Let me list the ways,

we haven’t finished.