about a year ago

I drove you home
in the dark,
with a little rain

    the kind of drops you see
    the red, yellow, and green
    streetlights through

and that one song came on
with the acoustics of
a left lung
and you stuck to my shoulder
like you belong in my seat
like you belong in my lap
like you belong in my right lung
like you belonged
in a cage of ribs

the frame of a chest
is the place you knew best
to hide your elasticity

    my respiratory activity;
    intercostal spaces
    of muscles, arteries, veins,
    and nervous, is my system
    twisted around its axis

they say men generally have
broad shoulders --
an expanded chest for you
to inhale
my air

but the mouth is the quickest way
into the bloodstream.
the body is not twisted.
both ends touch.