Exegsis

You are not my lover, Name omitted.  Even with hands hot and heavy on my hips. I don’t let anyone touch me. You don’t know how I pinch at that skin in anguish because you don't know who I am. You are not my friend, Name omitted, but I felt you in my loins last night. I read your words like rolling up my sleeve for the first time. Everything after was just tapping the syringe. In the morning I learned how to be broken by you, but I still don’t know your middle name.

Stray dogs collide for a moment to smell each other’s groins. I have buried my muzzle in the nape of your corduroy coat. I know your scent: orphan; boy; mutt. I carry it in my gut as dogs do. You sleep in the garbage pile by the railroad. You are not my lover, Name omitted, but your scent sticks to my face. The pound howls out into darkness and we shrug it off. Trouble brews in silver spoons; your absence in my blood.
Still, I let sleeping dogs lie.