Last October there were seven hours of light and you spent them asleep or in love with the man with two hearts: one tucked deep in the crook of his arm the other in the doorway of his home.
Hangman, he offered but you dodged the needle and thread snuck past the blood, rope and tender organ Sat on his chest, peered down his throat for a wormhole, pounded sternum for his real age -
Ache of wooden floor made love to revive him; saw his heart pulse again - the one he kept inside Exhausted and cold, took shelter deep in the curvature of his lonely spine while he slept and swore through the winter
Sat vigil over his suffering the heart in the door still stubborn throbbing
Cursing the flies - the swarms gathered outside
would not yet come in.