last night, wine, ribs and hipbones

you are stroking my hair with a salient paranoia
burying tiny sugarcoated land mines
among the split ends and unwashed roots
without asking the questions which are vibrating around your tongue
about last night, wine, ribs and hipbones
and the taste of my lips in the morning.

you are weaving future traps
of unutterable suspicions tucked in the back of bookcases
and under newspapers
which one day we will trip over and watch sever the limbs
from these months
strew the happiness moments in bloody clumps
across muddy gutters

I am waiting for you to ask me
where I spent the evening
so I can explain, tarnishing but salvaging
something?
with some cowardly honesty
and discount excuse

but you continue to stroke my hair
in silence
picturing his skin on mine
in whispered bliss
planting an endless fission of uranium thoughts
and waiting
for the bomb