I’m staring at your leather belt, praying
those jeans loosen their grip enough

to reveal your porcelain back while I listen
to “blacks crackle and drag”. You

haven’t caught me peering at the sliver of flesh
between jeans and shirt. The warm glisten

of your sweat rests on the only hint of skin
I can see. I’ve heard Daddy before,

I could be yours and you could be my lady lazarus
and eat me like air. And I would feed you a lie,

one of the little ones – the kind that turns
strangers to lovers, that turns words to poems.