polar bear

maybe you should kick me out, i say. he chuckles, 

clutching at his throat delicately. yeah? 

why’s that?

i don’t know, i say, and i mean it,

and stop talking. 

it is in the nature of desire to crumple in on itself,

like a butterfly, folded and refolded from a beer label,

sickly and glistening in the light. obscene.

must i describe to you the way it looks, there, now,

on the kitchen counter? must i describe to you the way

his body moved in the dark,

or do you get the picture?

the walking back and forth, the beer bottles, and sheets,

and the smell of him, the ache, an origami spine, 

and the way my body folds, again,

crumpling in on itself,

a butterfly, or a crime scene, or just

an emptiness

waiting