we're all drunk and always have been

no
i haven't felt smaller than this before
and it could be
because i don't breathe poetry in
and out -
in
and out,
in
and out -
i write it under my eyebrows
with the precision
of a drunk sniper
toasted into admission
with irony s-st-tutter-ering
down his throat.

you wouldn't take a damned bullet for me.

beautiful is a word kept
for the rise
and fall
of her tidal chest,
not my shallow breath,
not my sunset, heartfelt,
hollow silhouette.

i would have disappeared
between your accusing index and
neglected thumb -
rub me,

rub me?

rub her
rub her

don't you feel calmer?

no

i haven't felt smaller than this
before.

i haven't felt smaller than this before
and it could be
because you found a home between
her stroking index and
comforting thumb -
i haven't forgotten,
no, i still remember

now twenty two penumbrae in the past
didn't stop me
from settling
in one of several crevasses
at the bottom of your oceanic mind;
you may have forgotten,
and slept in
on the details,
but i haven't,
not yet,

not yet.

i haven't felt smaller than this before.