you will never be here again.

Written by Trini Rogando

the broad swathes of the dark trickle into sullen dawn 
& i wonder how you haven’t disappeared. between
heavy lids you seem larger than mortal—
but i don’t want to hear about the lives you’ve sipped before me
or the flushed worship of other, briefer nights.

things look so otherworldly 
in the mornings. beautiful to fade.

you balance a yolk of wisteria between
those shoulder blade curves—angel wings,
arcing up towards the sun. ambrosia takes a 
different form in the goldenrod bed, presented
as a choice: cupbearer or bare-chested.

what happens after this suspension of sky?
what happens when we stretch past these stolen hours?

i pretend to understand why you choose to linger,
why you choose to inhale the last smoke of
dusk like a scrape of bloodied rust. 
i pretend you like the taste of starlight on your tongue,
revelling in the slow decay of cusped bodies; gaping mouths. 

i pretend you stay for me, but we both know—
you will never be here again.