dusty séances on the
crayons and candles
ride on the back
I’m so cold I’m so warm
reaching expert level self-sabotage
I was happy, happy
with my fingers like tendrils of
summer vegetables wrapping around
your sternum popping at the core
of all the stairwells I remember
had the most stray letters
on the windowsill and
the door was marked with a name
the day was
gray and orange while I lay
still and felt nothing
is the season for dripping fruit from open eyes.
stale sweat mixed with the fresh stuff
in a cyclone of ripe summer
makes me think of
slicing up your calves and eating them
for the iron.
tripping with multicolored birds
cannot for my life remember what we did with our bikes.
boiler room streaming
to keep the party going but
no one wants to do poppers right now.
gaping spaces bleached with sun
and ice in paper cups
drizzled with fake fruit
far too sweet.
you were my companion,
but the theater was closed.
four hundred and fifty stairs to the top,
but empty rooms
waiting to be filled with sighs.
river plants hanging low
tried to stop the boat,
and if we weren’t careful
the sky would swallow us whole.
lines burned into my back
made my eyes heavy,
made me want to sleep in dark
air conditioned bedrooms
where we could build secret worlds
and live there alone together.