Fudge-snacking and sludge-packing;

engines pumping sleaze,

wheeze like a lech and retch

into the gutter

and sputter

and spit,

having fits,

skin splits from

contusions,

bruises,

pus sluices

from

the damnable,

corrupted,

flesh.

You speak softly this close, breathe air into these parts of me. This closeness is like noses touching, like toes crinkling inwards that rub against carpet when no one sees. In the spaces between us we can’t see, words grow into thoughts, grow into stories no one tells. I carry your weight in these stories like memories.