running yrself down to empty like it's just to prove a point about how you don't need anyone's help to fill you up again. sillygoofysexdrunkgrinningwide falling all over ourselves grasping clutching at skin that flushes with the blood rush to your head to your core to your fingers i measure the distance to you in street numbers 12th to 21st and three blocks west, alley entrance to the basement suite, second bedroom to the left and we twist and turn and stay up all night and it never seemed like much to you and it never seemed like much to me and it's not much at all anyways is it really but what matters is the rush from holding your breath a little too long, from standing on your head, the heat stroke and the 420 stairs and our bodies pink in the sun, burning so we can't touch.
what matters is we're burning so we can't touch.

i'm lumping them all together.

we slept like knots and i felt every breath wrapped up in each other like ropes which made it easy to forget
that we're more like snakes than ropes when you use your head
am i just a glutton for punishment or do i never ever use my head?

some lies about spring

the pace of your steps and the way the wind gusts, blowing dust and dead leaves just recently released from winter into your eyes are the only two things i can think about. later on it will be with hesitation and regret that i try to recall your facial expressions as you looked at me every few steps (i always looked down and to the left) or where your arms fell and what shapes your hands made.
stupid details i wish i could summon to gleem some significance from because you're so fucking inscrutable the way you just nod when i say nothing. i didn't say anything, forget it. not today.
maybe tomorrow.

physical

i don't have any pictures of us.
and i don't understand why i care but i do. it's not about you, or maybe a little. but it's mostly about the moments, moments i wish i could see again, through the haze of cheap flashes rather than cheep wine.
moments i just want to have confirmed, so i don't periodically wonder whether they really happened. you sitting on my bed in a sweater too big for you, too wooly for the weather. glitter smeared on the sheets and beer spilled on the kitchen floor. i want messy, messy truths.
but it's not more than a little bit about you.

(JUNE)