After, when cigarette smoke is a ghost kissing the window screen

The record needle lowers, presses lovingly into each groove,
bouncing slowly, making honeyed sounds that linger

above tangled bed sheets, lightly lick the ceiling,
and brush away the cooling sweat in my curls.

When his mouth smiles against my middle-of-the-night skin,
I can hear his beard scratching across my cheek,

feel calloused fingers drag across my navel,
hear his voice tenderly stroke my eardrums.

Abbey Road spins and hums under dim golden warm,
thawing the chill of you: not in love with me,

never in love with me. Even when I knuckle the steering wheel
on the way to your house during a paper-white snowstorm,

when you bite into my shoulder like forbidden fruit,
when your hands ease the nausea of lonely,

when I am captivated by the slowness of your eyelids,
knowing that I will leave before you open them for morning.

After, I ghostrise above us, marvel about how we fit
and don’t at the same time. My spine sings.