Your skin is a syringe...

{After mishearing the lyric “I wish I could 

shake some sense into you and walk out the door...

but your skin is porcelain” by Better Than Ezra.}

I woke up in

an empty room,

smelled tailpipe

and your perfume

coming in from the

window, out from the

sheet – feeling cold on

my shoulders, warm on my feet.

“Your skin is a

syringe” I think,

trying to remember

if bronze or pink – it

was soft on your breasts

and hard on your spine.

I had plunged down your

throat; you had needled my mind.

Thank God, you

left some water by

that hot, tar-stained

glass. I nod to half a

bottle Jack “Hail Mary ...”
Some dew-beads on the window

hinge, my shoe-marks down the

side-wall shingles – your skin is a syringe.