Dust

It seems we’ve left skin

in each other’s lungs. I should have

looked under your bed skirt

for my wallet, but how

could credit cards compare

to the sneeze after we’ve parted?

Gone and still you make me

reach for a tissue—still my palms

turn circles in the red

breakwater of your heartbeat.

I want to tell you, I have nothing

but respect for your ribcage

now that we both know

it’s not big enough to hold us.