message

unwanted object of analysis
is what was set swimming through the waves around
my head,
materialized in the sound of you speaking your nickname,
now debauched
by the forgetting of
squeezed cheeks,
the forgetting of hotel room
promises,
of mountain top
propositions,
of beachside
professions,
sunsets and wineglasses and indigenous fucking markets.

and fucking in the afternoon,
and lapping at my elbow,
and twirling across dance floors,
and spent philosophies,
and spent thighs.
I spent nights
thinking I had reached it.
but it threw me back across the border.

and now it calls me and the only answer through which I can recover respect is none.