I could hear the bomb tick
in your jacket. Between layers
of leather, so close to chest.
I wouldn’t have noticed
if we hadn’t been pushed
together on the train.
You caught my bags and fall
and I had to say thank you,
fist making a zero around
the metal pole. Now I eat
from your palm, gaps between
fingers, gaps of sewer grate.
I think of the line of your smile
against my closed mouth.
Soon I stop the tape, pinch
the black timeline between
my fingers and pull until over.
You hold me up to the light,
back me against the bulb until
gold snows on my shoulders.
You make me lick the mirror,
something about catching
the girl between tongue
and teeth. Smoke folds over
her and the bomb breathes
after another run to station.

—-
Lake W. is a teenage poet from the States who doesn’t like much about them. She is asexual and tired. She posts poetry readings to pomoromantic.tumblr.com as she’s starting to get used to her voice again.