crooked as corkscrews

I kissed you until I burned the roof
of my mouth, until there was no sugar
left in the house.

Doctors gave me your MRI scans. I colored
in the crevices of your brain with charcoal
crayons. I hung them up like curtains.

They let in light: my walls glowed skeletons.
Copies of your insides kept me awake
for days, I daydreamed about bleach. Hospitals

perched on cliffs. I brewed fresh coffee pots
every single day, brought you mail so you could
see your name on white envelopes, held mirrors

up to your face so you could remember. No matter
what I did, our mouths still tasted like ashes.

Surely it is a privilege to approach the end
still believing in something.