warhead

it was a thousand texts ago and you were all smiles- 

i was tongue, 

  the silo, the exhalation 

  without any 

  goddamn thought for any other 

  breath

  with the warheads all like waves 

  creaming corn 

  and pulsing the salsa. 

it was a million to one

with the clowns all painted black- well, 

i am clowning now, 

and there are pockets of you 

within me, 

but my hands exhaust themselves 

just trying to reach for yours.

it's sad.

and my tongue is 

nothing.