we will never run out

you are stoic,
refusing my proffered ice pack and
insisting on walking to the car
on your shattered knee -
stupid man, the kind
that will never admit
how bad it is, even if
it's really awful

so i fuck you instead,
hoping it will make you
more pliable, so that
you might make faces at
my tea,
but drink it anyway

you hobble from bed to couch,
my eye wary on your balance
which is drugged,
and a little bit off - thinking,
i might
love this man, but
i'll never say it -
especially when your pride
is bruised
more than your face,
but i might -
startling as the realization is

so i smooth the stiff stitching
over your brow,
kiss the side of your mouth
that can still smile
and i watch you stand,
awkward and slow, dragging
your leg behind you

we stand, supported by crutches,
and we hold, we just
hang on tightly

a bit less

hello, my body said
pressed against yours,
i was looking for something
on the tip of my tongue
or my finger,
not sure of what to find, or
why.
this is not new, but
age-old -
a click into place, a
sudden peace.
desire does not grow old,
only us -
jaded and a bit less
self-assured,
every time.
i watch us settle in to
each other, adjusting
the fit,
squirming in our own clothing.
instead we writhe into nakedness,
and lay open as this book,
readable in its entirety,
if you just give it
the time.

i don't mind.