Do you know what it means for a city to twinkle? In the apartment complex 45 degrees away there is a man sitting with his head in his hands and a guitar on the bed. There is a woman pacing in her kitchen of fine china and an abandoned living room with the sportscaster yelling at no one. There is no game to be cheering for anymore, the game is over, the clock starts over in military time. Someone salutes the telephone behind my walls and the fridge groans, having to appease the stringy mango no one wants.
I am quiet. I am watching the city breathe into the night as if it is not supposed to know that I am here. When you’ve spent too much of your day speaking meaningless words, soon your voice trails off, too.
could really use some of these right now
i’m trying so hard not to do drugs. the night is quiet already. it’s like they taught us black means silence, means death. i don’t know death. my cavities are uneven and i’m scared they’ll change my smile. but i don’t know, to smile. i was googling my memories to see if anyone else would be interested; instead i remembered the ex-militia diver who asked me on a date exactly eleven times and bought me a coke to prove he was serious. i drank it all because i missed being wanted, but then he gave me his sunhat and love was this warm, tender thing i had become so foreign to. i left a little before midnight on the go-fast, mother sky winking above me, upside-down.
someone to draw mindmaps with. someone who will buy me bootleg bubble gum. someone whose mouth doesn’t have to taste like honey. someone who knows i am often broken in the months of november, january, and july. sometimes august. sometimes too warm. someone who prays too hard and ties the shoes of prenne in < 5 blinks. someone who will close the door on their way out, and let me lock it.
the paper cutouts of us are still in the backseat making out on a daily basis/they snort the grain so loud the field wakes/we are lovers on letter on speckled leather/the sweat pools/the salty buckles/our paper me’s and you’s/stop breathing
on a good day, I can sit in the park
I can show you my good hands
the upper lip of a tightrope
it was the year of the wasps
they were high on fig nectar
unmotivated by bench plank
after bench plank I was sitting
I can tell you again,
I stayed put by the sea
on a good day
on a good day