Dump on me.
Dump in me.

Show me your calligraphy:
the sharp edges of your inky
chisel-tipped frame of mind.

Impart on me
your graffiti:
every single-stroked
curving point of reference
holding your place
on every single
free-hand fault line.

Fill me with your unwants
fill me with your remnants:
Fill me with your former self.

Lend me every overexposed
emulsified scrap of monochromatic negative
every one last time
every one more chance
every not-my-fault
slamming doors punching holes
in bedroom walls.

Every I didn’t mean to
every long in the tooth
baby
you
know
I
love
you.

One’s trash
another’s axiom
or treasure:
another’s superlative pleasure.

I take refuge
in your effervescent
refuse.

I bask in discarded monologues
and manuscripts
fingering forgotten dialogues
holding onto diatribes
and puke-stained
morning after vibes:
those aphonic verbalizations
just after that slovenly first kiss
and just before that graceless first fuck.
In between
every teary-eyed
if I knew what was wrong I would tell you.
Every maxim.
Every I will never, not always, kiss you in
Dying punk house hallways.
Every hot air, blue in the face
slice of rhetoric on the meaning
of eros.
Every epigram
and every epithet.

Hit me
with your water-trash-soaked
paper-valentine-heart
turned to rosewater
plucked from graves on christmas day.
With all of your
running ink I love yous
in birthday cards
your mother thinks you’ll keep forever.

Touch me
with every thunderous trembling fear
all that you would have said
if only you had:
the chance
or the gall
or the brave.
Every grave matter
trapped in liminality
between a draft of a text message
and a full on dissertation
of the intersecting
pencil-thin lines
of pillow talk,
smitten liturgy
and idiosyncratic inspired vitriol.

And if you and I
are a box of pale oblong blue shards
of a Grecian urn
too broken to ever
be whole again,
if our hearts only dance
in the bliss of remember-whens
on a floor
of forget-me-nots,
let every fluid ounce of indifference
every I-told-you-so
I-wished-you-didn't
and every I-was-so-insufferably-smitten
rest in a bed of chrysanthemums
and know that:

For better
or for worse

Someday
someone

will make sense of all
these broken artifacts
every one of our split relics.
Running their sanguine
and overzealous tongues
over sugar cavities
and potsherds
poking their fervent fingers
in every god-shaped misgiving
in the edifice
of our ramshackle narratives.

All the pieces of you
becoming pieces of me
becoming pieces of somebody else.