Dark settles on the walls, the street lamp blinks sm light,
then dies, then blinks again. A moth- stuck inside the room-
pares its wings on the glass, falls to the windowsill,
then does it again. My eyelids do the same.
I remember his mouth; how the ghosts under his tongue
slid through the cracks of his teeth, found mine, stayed there.
And the birds at the backs of our eyes drank too much to leave.
He told me there's a life of everything, somewhere else;
one that isn't made of feathers or concrete.
I'd be the flayed moth that made it through the glass,
He, the sun, and my guts would be warmed under him.