Same Time Tomorrow

A silver fence hums somewhere in the distance, cutting us to ribbons if we reach too long, too hard for one another. The crush of your warmth is my only solace in the long stretch of night. It sticks to me like sweat, our backs tied together                  like when I kissed you last – just to be a nuisance, just to                                                           watch your brows furrow when I arced to take your space.             Last Wednesday, I lied to you.             I smelled the smoke, the outpour billowing against your windows, smudged and             closed. Fire flickers up the wall. Stay low – a good, necessary rule for those             smarter than I, those who do not savor the scorch of their throat; so uniquely you.             I bow to no one, but for you, my elbows are raw and runny. I trip over a suitcase             (one day, we’ll go far away – when the weather cools, when the clouds pass, when             the snow clears from the highest mountain peak, when the crows stop feeding from             our palms) and scoop you into my arms, your hands still spitting that same flame             that got us here in the first place with kindling underfoot – shoved into crevices: the press of thighs, the soft spots in our cheeks, our dirty socks pushed into our mouths. The field does not need to see this again. It has lived through it a million times before. I always die a liar. I always die before the sun rises. I always die on your porch steps, trailing water in.