Forgive me when I immediately want to remove your shirt
as soon as we get through the door, pulling at your collar,
trying to get my hands in between your bones, but the way
your hair just touches the nape of your neck when it’s wet,
like black moon shavings, like an artist painting grief
on a canvas with their tongue,
is beautiful like a lit birthday cake.
But please, stop popping
these black cherries like pills whenever you have stage fright;
even the sweat of your hands won’t help them go down
smooth and whole. You were not breakable; you were just
waiting for someone to make you shatter.