him, sometimes…

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.