Yet

We were still refusing to unscrew,
lapping that taste of octane number
in the mouth of the arsonist.
We were still feeding on remnants of orgasms,
bandaging the feelings’ cirrhosis.
We were refusing guidance
on all our surface, allowing us
false imitation expressions.
Like a cat full of misunderstanding
you were burring me with embarrassment
at the edge of your femininity.