i'm tired
of being consumed. when it feels good for you when it feels easy.
back-to-back heartaches
firmly in the rearview, you took off like a runner at the gun into the sun and salt of summer. Your love of bottle blondes tempered by the last few grand disappointments, you found yourself drawn to brunettes with thick curls. You got a taste for musicians and artists, rather
you don't smoke anymore
and I never carry a pack, so we pass the cigarette I bummed off that college kid from the bar back and forth. The hour has faded past midnight blues into the orange promise of a new day. We're four, no five, years down the road from where
i want to love you
in every timeline! every reincarnation! every alternate universe, even the ones where you are up and I am down.
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if all things heal
maybe we do too. Moments like lifetimes spent circling each other in a size-up melted down, anger and fear repurposed, to create two new creatures who play. See them run and tumble into one another, swept off their feet and then safely righted again as forms of joy. How long
desperation made you
wild enough one night to dig the biggest knife out of your kitchen drawer, grip it tight, and hold it high above the soft veins of your left wrist. One strong strike. The fleeting pain it would cost your body would be nothing held against the agony that had raged
i'm dreaming
of a forest, green, and breath, hot, rising in the arctic air. A steam poured forth from my lips and onto yours like the wisps of a spirit escaping the body. If my soul broke free, would you catch it in your mouth? Would you hold it on your tongue?
you love to watch
the boys at play, especially the ones that fare tall and strong. Their glass-cutter jaws and crooked noses molded into beautiful masculinity as they grin at friends and flip jokes at each other with ease, tumbled words and swallowed each other's thoughts. It delights you to watch that
you don't
think about killing yourself anymore, at least not in the real sense. Maybe you never even meant it, really meant it, because what you always pictured was your own funeral. A Tom Sawyer in your own right, you dreamed up all the adoring things people would say. Who'd