He’s a raconteur, promising ember and gold; in reality
he delivers blue and cold purple.

He’s mercurial, magnetic. I pray minutes towards him
(He, as always, stays epicural)

He jumps, I breathe (both inclined too deep). Histology,
pathology; he is my heart and lung.

He introduces at the door Dora—meet calm. We clamour
in conspiracies of two plus fire.

He mimes thin air to blow le petite mort, boasts
You will remember me and deserve it all

Lost in anecdoche of who said what, who started this,
it goes on and on. Neither of us stop to listen.

The opposite of me is disconnection he mourns.
One of us is addicted to the other.