My mouth is an anchor that never learned

to save the ship, a slow descent into a darkness

I never loved, but always knew how to flirt with.

I’ve left more poetry strewn on inner thighs than

have made it on paper, some of my best lines

will always rub against jeans I’ve never seen

strewn on my bedroom floor.

I hope you taste my name every time you bite your lip.

One day we’ll get drunk, and reminisce about the way

our bodies fell apart against cold blankets, the sting

of heaving chests, familiar, just to keep us warm.

Kristen Kane is a Pittsburgh native whose poetry has been featured in Backroads, the University of Pittsburgh at Johnstown’s literary magazine.