green remnants under the tip of acrylic nail
at the end of my index finger
I fumble
I spill

this should be done by your hands,
visible veins showing the path that your blood takes back to your heart,
your blood carries my secrets, the sound of my words flow through pale blue lines
under tan skin and rough palms and
out the ends of fingertips that trace designs on the insides of my
upper thighs when you get distracted

you should be the first to inhale
lips let out swirls of smoke, making my head
and the air between us and the label upon us
all fuzzy
best bud bites my lip
as just a friend slips off lace

but today I am alone
and my lungs don’t like these white whisps
when you’re not with me