Post-Love Charm

The preliminary rituals of swanning.
Double-helixed compromise.
Don’t touch me unless you love me.
The rectangular slits of our tooth gaps.
Our tongues: makeshift autoclaves.
Alchemized; Babel-ified; siren-scarred.
We lie/lay in the bed un-made
during the days of the color
of diurnal cupidity. Our anti-moon pose:
Throats partially barred by the loose
translations of black market smoke.
Though, really, you should never
send the eyes to do the mouth’s job…
Eyes pleading, Give me more space
aliens, more pseudo-lighthouses.
Anything to desiccate the twelve-
finned hourglass that’s set up shop
in our ever clogging kitchen sink.