My queer.

It is the sound that rolls down my back to which your mouth turns into a love box,

It's the tone of your speech when all bets are off, along with the light bulbs from the nights.

It is,
It was,
It's loving the motion to which my feet take me to work each day.

The same feet my mother nursed with her tired hands at dark....

The breathe,
The speed,
The taste of thirst after a full glass of champagne with our shirts off,
Are the memories that I inhale and exhale when,
My,
My,
My identity is the gold in the room.

Let's take another car drive,
Tires half filled with air,
A dresser with only a square of space,
Socks in the back,
Cigarette buts burning the car seats,
Burning through my skull every mile we go.