Joe

I counted the scars on your stomach,
a constellation of puncture wounds;
the indentation from your broken rib
a perfect nook to warm my hand.
Maybe if you squeeze me tight enough,
we'll fuse like two atomic nuclei,
you nail marks etched into my back
like highway lanes. How I wanted
to keep driving with you tonight.
"Are those mountains?" I asked
of the shadows ahead
in graduated shades
of purple through the mist.
"No, that's smog." You shook
your head at my naivete.
"It's still pretty," I mused.
At least I have the permanent bruise
on my breast in matching colors--
a souvenir. You always bite the same place.
I saw mist rise above a highway bridge
last night--it was probably exhaust
from a truck, but all silver
in the streetlights it seemed
like poetry anyway.
Another hopeless romantic I am, I guess
And this beholder finds joy
in such oddities.