The moon is stapled to the night sky.
He is lying carefully across each memory.
Salvaging a winter of tenderness
before the street shrinks.
Her face perpetually recurring.
When apparitions of touch escape thinly onto tomorrow.
My Night as a Scar on your Chin
I abandon my belongings on your chest,
to climb your craggy chin-cliff,
my arms tenacious in their endeavour.
I clasp your jutting jawline,
my urchin limbs pulling upwards.
I lie unpacked on your face,
reclining and rolling over,
decadent in blistering heat,
nearing your mouth and its disasters within.
I retreat from your ruinous voice haunts,
leaving a scar as I descend.