Remember, you will die (watchface, slow ticking)

Poetics masked as years (beautiful, broken men)
--weeks old.
From you, I’ve cut fingertips
Pulled teeth
Lit fire, and of course…
walked shamefully from cinders.
I’ve called you “a lover…once”
A dozen or more times.
You as lover is he as lover
But she as lover is three weeks as
secret
--coded numbers, thousand mile stare,
crying in the shower lover.

and you said, “a lot. A lot a lot.” And
I wonder the half life
of that measurement. How quickly your
world must orbit the sun.