I have discovered this in all our stories passed.

I would break my bones
to offer up the night
in a drunken salvo
for each desperate breath
by the neck of every tear.

In a story all mixed up,
we left a trail of numbered postcards
one for every cigarette
shared between motel pillows.

London can wait, he said
no rush in leaving before the sun rises.

We'll tear up the bill
like a tent, a waterfall
and lie some more.

The pins falling one by one,
waiting in a line.
You could see it in the curve of my a's
carved into virgin concrete
like the sidewalks knew it all.

Were you in love?
It turned on us.
At the airport you held your breath
we stole out
to set away
and cast our ballots
seal our last letters
to time between
to the space that comes between scars
and memory.

I knew it was a prayer when I heard you speak.