retinal scar, interrupted

sweat-soaked sheets and a will that
makes hitler shake, i count
the hours One. one. two.
one—clocks in trauma
hands spasmshot forward and my mouth is runningRunning
running, a dirty faucet
caught in the swoop of you

a misplaced observation
enough to break my momentum—

a day’s wage for an hour of laughter
now you won’t even look at me
not that there’s much—the only thing worth seeing
is your card between my fingers
crushed coral sprinkled on my spine
a hairline fracture hooked
onto the balcony.

if you spoke now, the sun would burst
murderous light to the rhythm of my chest.

These last lines I cannot write.

These last lines will sabotage me.