this is where your fingers think of pipes

This is where we come to kiss. And this is where they go to die. And this is where you buried Jasmine, drifting East in a metaphor. This is where she rose from the grave, covered in snow. This is where you saw her ghost. This is where you came in a pillow. This is where you came to die. It is where a baby shoe balances on the knob by the crosswalk. It is where coffee stirs and your fingers think of pipes.

Nervous, slender fingers. Guitar fingers, you think. And the girls who wear long jackets with short skirts in the winter, handing out pamphlets at intersections. Delicate, deliberate fingers. Cold, drinking fingers. The callous on the right middle finger--your pen callous. Your words make alterations to your flesh. These fingers don't take rings. These fingers age without your lover's face to touch.

This is where you will stay. There is no need for stolen moments. Baby, where is your tongue?

On balloon hands. That rubber, stretching and snapping, wet, sputtering, dusty, sticky, static feel. She has been living in those warped and elongated distances. Has begun to believe that you exist without touch.

How dare you try to break that silence. Don't make us laugh. This is where you keep the rest of it to yourself.