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I.                

This blood is thick and sticky. 

My two front teeth went missing.

I want to write a love poem for them.

After all, my tongue traces

their absent concaves by memory. 

II.              

You stopped to play lottery. And I did not hurry you.  

“Should I buy another?” Your socks 

are rolled down and your backpack is unzipped, hung over your 

right shoulder.

III.            

On the last night, we whisper 

to each other across The unlit room.

About faced, our lips brush rough wall texture. 

I am not afraid.

I am afraid.