i lace my boots to leave and step over the thousand words and line and letters of you,
all smelling of ink and iron. crowned the king of blood and salt,
i waver in between this and that, passive and demanding all at once,
making you blush (stains on your sheets indict us).
i lace my boots and leave, your hair smelling of me,
paper crinkling on the floor where we rucked it last night.
everything is messy but you like it that way and i like you, not complaining that the rug smells of the sea and plastic and the stale wood-smoke of a forest fire.
six feet away you’re beautiful, but as i lace my boots to leave you wake,
turning into the alpha, the omega, the sunset on the first day of the apocalypse.
i lace my boots and leave as you turn,
legs waving: gregor samsa and his commonplace death.
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