I’m talkin’ to the sweat-slick moon,
bass so low it licks the crack in my ribs.
You said “don’t,” so I did—
slipped the word off your lip like a cherry-stem knot,
spit it back silver, obscene,
let it drip down the hollow where your throat used to be polite.
Skin on my skin is a vandal’s hymn,
paint the wall with our filthy Amen,
grind the tempo till the neighbors know my name in gasps—
don’t, don’t, don’t—
but your knees keep confessing yes.