His lips are breaking as they touch my skin.
I can see the little lines crumbling
and the pieces fall down on my breasts.
He left a smear
of pink flesh on my neck.

His fingernails are cracking as they reach at me.
I can feel the flecks sprinkling my head
with tiny layers of clear plastic.
Sometimes my skin grows over it.

I can feel his chest sink
as I run my fingers over the patch of little brown hairs.
It is melting down his leg.
     Oh,
I am truly sorry for this!

I do enjoy touching his spine through his shirt.
It feels like coral,
the pores breathing and huffing,
trying to blow down his boxers.

He squeezes my cheeks with his rock knees.
They feel like little white bundles of wire.
I’m trying to suck their tint into my face--
My complexion is sick of being
so god damn
red.

I am holding his teeth between my finger tips.
They are little squares of us:
His white,
Mine,
a slimy
disposition.