Eileen

Oh, Eileen.
In your velvet-red asphyxiation
and psychosis.
Come to bed without your
painted fingers.
Your anorexic breath gets to you,
gets to him.
Lie here beside me, with my
untitled emotions, and
kiss my eclipsed face away off the edges,
out of your red dress and stolen barstool.
Your eyes are still in the dark, as I
feel myself caress your mind with
dimpled flicks of the tongue.
Oh, Eileen.
Your kisses burn like stars on my eyelids,
into my throat like cracked summer storms.
Are you hypochondriac in your dreams?
Or is it me trembling, beside you, in bed?
Lips such as morphine,
and a Stockholm heart, pulsing furls of
smoke out your nose like a landslide
in reverse.
An invisible, yellow alien, you sift through the
Warsaw streets with orange
eyes,
and your kaleidoscopic desires I can’t
get close enough to touch,
even in here.