Ex-Two

The second kiss creaks to the hour.

The clock hands wrenched to parallel.

The click of minutes clasp my neck

to mark each second’s subtle swell.

One minute past. I feel the sweat

that lubricates your underarm.

Your body’s the efficient kind:

it cuts and slices up the time.

Though stationary I wish to stay,

you long for nine to turn twelve.

Our rhythm’s out. Our feeling’s faked.

We’re past our prime. It’s getting late.

We part as strangers on the hour.

Convergence creaks past parallel.

The minutes yellow on my neck,

as rotting moments sometimes dwell.

The hours struck and left us bruised,

by dawn we barely knew ourselves,

as cold hands cut above each other

to mark each second’s subtle swell.