stranger
meet
like
like more
time
friends
like
touch
lust
like
time
touch
kiss
like more
lust
kiss
sex
trust
like more
sex
love
sex
trust
time
fear
like
sex
lust
love
pain
fear
love
kiss
loss
time
love
time
resentment
love
loss
hate
love
time
ambivalence
time
loss
time
stranger.

i have these four paper lanterns which glow in the corners of my room. well, two are lit (two don't technically belong to me) and by saying they are "lit" i'm actually disguising the little glow and buzz of a tiny bulb, which is powered by acid and chemistry of some sort, into something romantic in notion. we feel each other up like a couple of teenagers enjoying a blank slate, and we've ignored our friends for at least two weeks. you kiss my neck and we fuck like we want to be in love but we aren't and that's the beauty. this way no one else can make a mess of this because this something we have have is nothing at all. i have four cigarettes left but its raining out and my windows face east in such a way that the rain still creeps in with a tap tap tap against the open window's screen. so we bite lips and high five between rounds of guitar hero, you explain the origins of blue eyed brunettes, and we share information on the geography of cool spots beneath the sheets; your body burns like a thrift store space heater. i repeat small words while writing to add emphasis, perhaps i repeat mistakes as well.... as if to add emphasis (you are not one of them).




following some glow like a lit lantern

what's the sight or sound of a feeling? does it show itself the way purples and reds rise up through bruised skin. is there a name for that burning pulse you get when you have realized that someone woke up next to you, day after day, and slowly realized they no longer had any desire to love you, maybe even a diagnoses and cure for it perhaps? can we tie a tourniquet around it to stop the bleeding, or will there always be a drip drip drip of those bloody memories ever so small. has no yale graduate written this into medical text books yet? studied the equations and chemicals or at least etched some fucking riddle on a bathroom wall? i've got a needle and thread but there isn't any tear to sew up and i've mapped your skin as we stood in the shower those two or three times (we've only just met in that way) but i can't ever find that gunshot size wound that turned the rhythmic thump and firefly glow of your chest which i remembered from years ago, into a spot solid as an oak; with limbs of an elm. laying on my back you trace pictures between my new scars that dot across my stomach and laying with my head on yours i can hear the crack and moan of your heart strings, like branches in the wind, wrapped tight around your lungs that just need to fucking breathe, but they wont ever let the air in, and they won't let me in either. but that's okay, i think it's okay. we'll hide in bed and drink tea and talk modernist artist shit like it never went out of style, and we'll be our own moody and brooding solutions for each other, for now anyway. i have every intentions of kissing you to sleep tonight because, well, what else is there... what else is there that i would ever possibly want to do?





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