Moments

He stands in front of me, his hair dark and soggy with shower water, sloppily combed to the side,  sliding his delicate hands over the random shit on my nightstand, nonchalantly. He has no boundaries- what is mine is his, and that is all he has ever known. Absentmindedly, he fingers the edge of one of the books I haven't yet finished, rests on my camera, and pauses for a split second before he raises it to his face. He aims his probing little eye through the finder, focuses on something across the room, and then sets the camera back down, with a sigh. His eyes meet mine. He isn’t embarrassed that I'm watching him so closely; he isn’t that self-aware yet. He stretches up, up, reaching his scrawny arms above his head and yawns, loudly. 

I catch a whiff of something, soapy, clean.

"Are you wearing deodorant?"

"Yes,"  he answers, matter-of-factly. "It makes me feel like a man."

Then he turns and skips out of the room, his spiderman pajama shirt tucked into the back of his underwear.

your urgent matters

only a few weeks into

it (whatever it was)

you came home

reeking of  

stained, soured hours

and stale smoke,

from the road

twisted in your sheets

as the door slammed

your hello

you pushed your tongue

feverishly inside me,
and my lips split red
against my teeth

didn’t even notice
the wet pillow, or

the damp on my cheeks

when finally,

you
were through

(how did you not see?) 
that night,
even the flowers were bleeding