we're so doing this again tommorow.

[my_apocrypha]

covered in 10 subway cars of fingerprints
faces pressed to a cold pane
foggy breath steps written initial
scribbles and chicken scratch
mismatched lights melted candles
is this your beeswax?
No. I didn’t think so. Paper blows
against storm windows
those shiny centerfolds in
magazines of the people I’ll never
Be.

__

indigenous to lips
i haven’t been home for lifetimes
kiss the roots.
swell around my frame.