autumn o-clock for secrets.

it is eighteen autumn o-clock and you're
standing there with a cigarette trapped in your
young mouth and watching the smoke wither away
in my atmosphere. your eyes are crackling green
and my fingers are unable to wipe you off
my screens.

it is nineteen autumn o-clock and you're
all mine, entwined delicately in my arms and
your smoke is all but a haze in my throat
and tears. nothing you say is a lie or truth.
it just is.

twenty autumn o-clock. you're shaking and
i'm crumbling and we're both rough
on the edges and you pull me closer
but all it does is rip me away.
the interesting thing about us is
the desert is a cold place to foster
a heartbeat;
i'm tangled and thin
in you.

half past twenty-three autumn o-clock
makes you driving slow with my head on
your shoulder, your hand on my knee,
and eyes asleep but brain alive, clicking.
the grooves in the pavement nail
my skull to you and we are one,
forever (or until you decide it's
enough).