on a thousand museum shelves.

i think you were forged in an explosion, which melted your chromosomes seamlessly into skin, and you were always ever so clever at saying pretty things at odd times. they tore down that old building we used to play in, can you fucking believe that? your mother would always whisper "such a shame" like someones grandfather just died and it's obvious now she was speaking of the memories rather than the mortar. we sat so close and drank milk and ate blueberries and kicked at broken glass and i never really knew what to do with my hands when i sat with your parents; strangled by a tie much too tight. we looked good dressed up (whenever it was we had to be) but even in heels and high-waisted skirts you would rather be beneath the railroad bridge throwing stones at passing trains. you dipped toes into the muddy creeks near my parents house, carefully choosing words to repeat until they lost their meanings, and i'd sit and wonder who assembled your little frame, who's god decided your tiny measurements? and if heaven was a record i'd drop the needle right there on that very moment and repeat repeat repeat. that night we held each others hands and spilt sugar into cheap gas-station coffees and your cheeks blushed with every sip and it was all so bloody perfect.