your wrists.

We made love while on opposite sides of third floor Brooklyn. A slug on your left wrist and my gaze stuck on the story of dark pink interruption on your bright white skin. I spit three ounces of gender into your mouth while your right leg wrapped around my long day. You have no name; I have no emotions. We are greyred margins marked-up rewrites. Denim and laces surround us. A dancer slips whiskey between my palms and reminds me what I need. I feel slurred when I reach empty and cannot help to wonder if I am here to fall in love again. No one knows the directions to lost but if I can just remain here for five more minutes, I may find that detour.