I talk about you like
a cancer for the tongue.
I reminisce
of our nights
where my fingers
felt your grooves and bumps,
as if tracing
the lines on
your own palm.

Cold porcelain
and clawed feet
marching on
the shiny tile.
"Echo!" you cry
and your spout groans
out the stars.

Your rivets
familiarly press deep
into my thick feet,
a plugged paramour
in which I lay,
in which I stand.
So my love,
pour me down
into your copper drains.
Gobble me up.

All I ask in return
is sanctuary.
A place in which
to cut the ribbons
from my curls.
A place in which
to allow myself
to show fear.
A place
to allow me
the cold of you
to chill my
reddened face.

I want the
adolescence of you
my clawed friend
and to not see
November's orange eyes.
But to see the silver
and white gleam
of your paws.

Kiss me good night
from your gleaming faucet
Because you are
all that I want.
Tonight I want to
count your rivets,
and turn the knob marked H
and sink into
the curve of your spine.