dusty séances on the
bedroom floor
crayons and candles
let me
ride on the back
I’m so cold I’m so warm
I’m
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
yours
had the most stray letters
on the windowsill and
the door was marked with a name
long departed
the day was
breaking, breaking
gray and orange while I lay
still and felt nothing
fast on the bus as far as we can go.
everything is green
and wet
with little snails on your eyelashes,
hands,
and tongue.
tastes like the day I drove
with the windows down
not knowing a year would bring
dirty skies
and glasses left on the bedside table.
but now the mattress is on the floor
and made of volcanic rock,
always shifting.
it was afternoon, and I
saw your thighs bleeding in the living room,
closed the door,
and turned my car the wrong direction
down a one-way street.
taking
walks holding
hands shaking
cold
under tents of dark it’s ok
we
don’t know anyone here
only
sidewalks
stretching out to places we wish we were
corners
of other worlds where
we are not what we are
but until then—-stay
while the last train leaves
whirring
above our heads
barreling on
to fields of stars
walking home
alone now I’m
thinking of things bursting apart
