on the first level, you are sitting on a council couch, reading late articles about recreational equine sedatives, scoffing at their lack of relevance
on the second you are dancing, two bodies in front of me, dipping to terrestrial lines, anchored in faith
on the fourth you are a tailor, sewing flannel patches into a pair of beige trousers that I tore on my bike
on the seventh, you are a voice, tied to a string that I cast out into an electrical storm, you are my genius
on the sixth, you are a staircase, from the seventh, to the fifth
on the fifth you are the number three, and I cannot erase you from my mind
on the eighth and ninth, you are empty spaces on a calendar that I'll never bother to own, waiting to be filled with roast dinners and rolled cigarettes
on the tenth, my head is light and you are looking at me, looking at me, looking at me
on the eleventh, I lay down beneath you
on the twelfth, you are a cherry dresser, with round knobs and lacquered drawers.
on the thirteenth, you are descending
on the fourteenth you are gossamer, and my arms an unworthy loom, too jagged and splintered to hold your delicate threads.
on the fifteenth I am drowning, and you are the last gulp of air that I took
on the sixteenth, you are the truth, and I am the destroyer. I eat your heart with both hands, my face so splattered with blood that I cannot see how you are dying with each bite. I am so caught with gore and nihilism that I cannot see how large your wound, or how much you've bled into my mouth.
in the cellar, there is a table, a lamp, a picture of you, and a bottle. the walls are stone and the floor stinks of reality. I can either be drunk and in darkness, or fuel the lamp, so that I might see your face.