Hitting the refresh will not make you write me

will not put you in the flesh in front of me
will not bring your throat, roughly stubbled,
bending again so deeply towards me
for a kiss of words so venomous

snakes were envious. I miss the tremble
of how I could kneel in front of you while

the dogwoods shook their blood-tipped petals. You
were my temple and I was your supplicant of dust
and the dogwoods knew this all along
but never whispered a fragrant hint

that your name would always be a longing thirst
while my name was never of any consequence