when you can't
remember the
clean smell of your first lover's skin
tho a woman who knew him just weeks,
was in a coma longer, part of his
suicide plan to smash into a school
bus in Majorca, of course on
Good Friday, can still
feel his fingers, his hair.
Her longing lasts but
it's not for you. Let it
be tango, let him wear you like
your leather jacket he carried so
gently to the closet as if
it was your skin,
carried into bed. Let the
moves between staccato be
water as damp jeans
slither to the floor
