I find

I find myself drawn mostly to the women who remind me
that caring is not a one-time indulgence when convenient or
a decision to be proud of. She says, it is our finest vice.

But I’ve walked through salt wind naked long enough
to know that calloused hands do not condition;
dipped in honey they remain as rough.

Whoever told us love was universal read it blind on the
cracked bleeding lips of a boy raised mute in a brothel.

I tell her this through a shared cigarette outside,
she ripples by the moon. Holds me for the first time.

As we walk back in her breathing deafens me.