You are the circumference of my lungs.
You tighten, and I am filled.
You restrict with your fingertips.
You are in the periphery of my gaze.
You are the mouth of the beer bottle from which I sip.
You are the portrait above the piano when I am kissing a stranger.
You are the skin which wraps around my veins.
You caress my blood, and I drink you like vodka.
You are the blanket falling off the bed.
You are the cold that kisses my ankles.
You conspire with the moon to make the atmosphere smaller.
You are the lingerie cascading from my shoulders.
You are clothes smelling of smoke on the floor.
You remind me in the morning of the secrets in my joints.
You are the lipstick stains on coffee cups.
You are the blood streaked on the bathroom mirror.
You are the corners and the silence.
You are, you are, you are the edges.