bigger reasons

are not something you put into words
sweet, drunken.
whisking eggs, breaking yolks.

I am boiled down to a pair of eyes and a suit of skin
with nothing but a glow as glue
holding
it up,
onto,
for.


whatever.
so after seven years of lost touch,
we chance meet
in a cafe
on the other side of the country
in la-la-land, to regain feeling
in a bottle of whiskey,
restless talking
and more restless caresses,
searching you for how I've changed.

a nascent capitalist and a fallen marxist,
a wandering texan and a hustling jew,
peeling my skin off in the morning,
peeling back the covers over your smile.