drawing blood for nameless gods

the pain, that day, was inevitable.
conversely, the smell of
fresh grass on the back pockets of
our jeans brought about
an unmistakable vivid tenacity for life, the kind that leaves your
shaking palms drawing blood for nameless gods.
i would then press my damp fingers over your eyelids, and tentatively
bite at each and every indicia of vertigo-
hungrily, not
even as testament of our liaison, but as snow white, as eve.
in benevolent curiosity and abysmal indignation, in genuine,
back-aching, cardiac exploding, nail biting candor and naïveté,
i would let crucify, just for you. i would cautiously desperately
foolishly exultantly
acquiescently do what i can
to elate, as to your appeal.
when i would wake, i would find
myself alone and arching, with greened knees
and
your fever
wrapped around me like a bouquet.