a lover named Anthony

the hem of this skirt has grown so unbearably frayed
i fear i begin to see him in the trailing strands
disillusioned, i retire to sheets soft and clean
waxing poetic and wistful in the cool night air
he grows and plods in my e a r d r u m s
"think; think; think;" he knifes to me
i smile and let my blood pool for him
we watch our wounded red reflections
bloom, and the thoughtstains make it all right
it's all right, and i know it, and he knows it
anthony, with his unkempt patchy morning eyes
and i, toes wrapped in scuffed patent leather
the both of us very nearly make one.