The thick air stuck to us in a waxy film.
It was August in New York.
We needled away our second city skins under hot water
and slid clean feet between white hotel sheets
to the damp sound of an air conditioner motoring in the wall.
I thought about your feet between those sheets,
and the feather pillow that you bunched under your neck
as I had mine,
and I moved into your skin. I was become you.
Your feet were my feet,
and I wanted to eat you bit by bit until you wore me, too,
until my feet also became your feet.
I think that's actually cannibalism, though,
and not very romantic,
and I don't think you'd like to be disassembled like that,
and we wouldn't be one with each other
so much as I'd just be really full
and going to prison where I would die alone,
because no one wants to be friends with a cannibal,
even in jail.