Bénisse ces Petites Morts

No aneurysm can touch
that stored image
of the way we touched.

A Peaches t-shirt
and that thing
you could do to me
with your eyes

then, now, when
we’ve both gone
to our big deaths.

All fabric falls away
to reveal more
than our encasings could hold.

Hormones and the little ones
we celebrated
without mourners
in a darkened basement.

Tell me how it feels
to find your fingerprints
all over those hidden stars.

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2 thoughts on “Bénisse ces Petites Morts

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