In the Home Depot parking lot,
after hauling the last of the tools into your car,
enough, hopefully, to fix the broken handrail
on the stairs leading to your basement,
you put your cigarette out on the console,
cage me with your arm, and tell me I have
to live.
I'm too still in the passenger seat,
afraid to lean against the window.
I look at nothing behind you.
You probe with snaked tongue,
seeing how far you can go.
Your gaze curls up toward my stomach,
a cave my ribs sink into.
I tell myself, it's love
which spurs this hesitation.
As numb tears fail to fall,
you brush them away dutifully
like scrubbing porcelain.
Two more seconds down my neck, and
my face is crime scene chalk
washed away.