It is summer so every event is typed bold. The heat itches us with temptation.
If we breach this line we tow, from the dead she will scold.
Our childhood church draped in black, a scan of the room reveals silent grins and enough
tears to heal heart attack.

Last week you skimmed a book on grief. The sun seeps into the stained glass first and my
skin second, but you loom over me so it is brief. It is more than warm, this building lacks ac. I could drip, but I am impatient. I need her to breathe.

I await a dropped glance so my hands can lace through your hair. You soothe like running cold water on a needle shaped burn, but you scar just as easily. I am always spared. You underscore sentences with falsities about the human condition, as if you understand, as if your mother has died. Although,

your lips. I struggle to refuse your spit. Today, I don’t feel like being delicious.
Perhaps desire is nothing more than self-obsession.

I caused it. The day it happened,
we let boredom fester. Skin to skin in fetal position, bodies depressing.
Collapse drowned by records she collected.
through the wall lays my mother, halted. 

My head between your legs, feigning connection
Bliss rejected, on the precipe of stolen kisses
stolen breath.