I remember smoking joints with you,
stained fingers twisting our hair
in tangled knots, eyes closed,
Hendrix hanging somewhere above
low-slung clouds circling our skulls.
Your body pressed against the wall
nearer the window than mine,
you pull your lips and fire erupts-
your chest struggles, deflates,
surrenders God from your lungs in drifts
that scatter the clouds to ribbon.
I've been cold before, I know
my goose flesh well. Trading breaths
with you beneath the cracked window,
its panes jitter like loose teeth
every time Jimmy walks his watchtower.
I will sleep in shifts and tonight
I'll sleep without touching you-
already miles between us, a pushing distance
that marks itself in hardwood beneath
a braided rug that smells of ruin.
I watch you, asleep on your back,
knees bent up and ankles in; pidgion-toed.
Your breath volcanoes up, visible in the chill,
then disappears as if it never was at all.