Yours

Coins spin on tables with rings
from the condensation at the bases
of cold mugs. The corners of the room
have people leaning into them like
kites into the wind and I can’t begin to
explain why the blood falling out of
our noses is as dark as ink. Just try to
think about those days in the parking lot.
Drinking rum and running so dizzily that
ankles roll and you pay the toll for the
reckless thoughts you have about what’s
behind her sweater. There is no kind of
treasure that could be used to convince me
that the time we spent together was for
nothing, and if there was I would only
accept it to place it in the palm of your hand
and close your fingers around it because it’s yours.