to the diagonal right of the scar on his shoulderblade,
he has a hebrew tattoo and sometimes when he’s been smoking,
his fingertips smell like scattered ashes. he doesn’t know that
when we sleep, sometimes i trace the caligraphy of his name
across his knuckles. sometimes, i inhale the crystalline rasp in his breath
like my lungs need it more than oxygen. sometimes they do.
sometimes i miss him like a naked moon in a blue sky; waiting for
the cover of darkness to show him just how brightly i can shine.