Sunflower motel.

what shape do i make now with my hands while the light passes into lateness. can i jack it in the backseat listening to bowie and licking the taste of summer salt back into my lower lip. thinking maybe these are your hands and the sun is opening the day after we stayed out all night to fuck and in the dimness of the motel parking garage dawn steals in on its toes. so lightly that when you breathe you drown it out more certainly than if you held its head underwater and called my name. said to come see the ocean because it was half past three and something more than sea came in from sea. put your hand around the back of my neck and held it even as you leaned closer and your chin dug like a fish hook in the curve of my shoulder. do you remember the time i got the key stuck in the front door and you were bleeding where i bit you and somehow the shore beat harder than the heart we had so it was only the shape of your hand in my mouth not your hand. one hand and i was saltwater all over burned all the way through. not just my throat but i offered up a whole body through the stars as they diffused into white glass as windscreen streaked with fireflies where your hand drew rivers. what shape do i make now with my feet against the headrest that will remind you of the summer and how it left me empty left me aching. i ask where is your body and the shape of it filling mine and if the sky was any farther from my hands then i would fill myself with it. i would pull it rough with cirrus between my legs and tell it to rain harder than before. rain harder harder harder harder.