All day and night and back into
The hours that make up the thread of days that
I know and live through, the cicadas sing.
Today I sat and watched one on the tree,
Intense and terrible, the body of it, how
It hugged the bark, mad little beast,
And I thought of you, how you'd wanted me to
Taste your body where no tongue had gone before,
The soft stark beauty of your full lips.
Near my feet was
the soft copy of another cicada
but in brittle skeleton form,
Dead and sad somehow but not forgotten,
and my tongue caressed the word
cicada as it remembered caressing you, your particular scent and texture,
the taste of liquor at the corners
Of your mouth that
I only wanted to hear my own name emerge from.
How you walked away hating my
self hatred and my knowledge
you only had sought the experience
of a tongue, and last night chewing
at the brittle bones of pills trying not to feel, trying not to see your face in my head, trying not to hear the cicadas,
that soft chirping crescendo of a roar
by a million tiny bodies that thrums
Like Chopin keys on flames
throughout the night.