The Plural of You

   
   
I recall the dried sudor ocean on your breasts  
after sweating out nights of drink, smoke and giving life the finger  
then kicking it in the teeth.  
   
I haven't forgot the tears we tried to disguise  
with hangovers, with the wisdom of love, hungover.
All possible time was spent glued, killing, cancerous
and growing towards the dying goodbyes, hanging over.  
   
We were stored energy most of the time.  
The rest was an immeasurable collision  
of unknown fluxes and overexertion of heaven's essence  
and we'd tell each other, while everything kept moving  
and changing we would remain constant  
but absence benumbed the Godlike collisions  
and new scorned faces reared Samson's blind destruction.  
   
I wish my memory could filter the plural of you  
and submerse its faces in the ocean of your breasts.